


How the West Was Won

by shihadchick



Series: Slayerverse [1]
Category: My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: AU: Vampire Slayer, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-18
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 08:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 43,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer really wishes that "sorry, I had to slay this vampire" was an excuse he could actually use for not having finished his homework. It's not like it's not <i>true</i>. (AU in which the Panic boys are still in high school, and Spencer finds out he's destined to be a Slayer, a la the Buffyverse.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How the West Was Won

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the Big Bang mods for putting this together, and major thanks to [](http://katrin.livejournal.com/profile)[**katrin**](http://katrin.livejournal.com/) for holding my hand the entire way and telling me to write more, and more, and asking what happens next, and to [](http://elucreh.livejournal.com/profile)[**elucreh**](http://elucreh.livejournal.com/) who somehow betaed this entire thing overnight, even though she had to invent an entire new shorthand with which to wrangle my grammatical missteps. You guys are legends, thank you. Title from REM, who kept telling me things I needed to hear, and rather a lot of mythology adapted from the Jossverse as appropriate.

* * *

It's an even bet as to who's more shocked, the first time Bob Bryar meets Spencer Smith.

Spencer would never in a million years have thought that, well, firstly that vampires were actually _real_, or secondly that he had some mystical destiny to slay them. Not that he gets to find that out right away, either. Initially, it's more like hi, this weird dude grabs him on his doorstep and starts talking at him, and don't think he hasn't seen a hundred and one scary movies that start out this way. As tempted as he is to dart back inside, slam the door and phone the cops, he's meant to be going to band practice, and okay, the guy is taller than him and everything, but Spencer's pretty sure he can take him, or at least run the hell away if he needs to. Besides, there's just something about him.

(Bob just can't believe that he's finally been called up as a Watcher, and his Slayer turns out to be a _boy_.)

"You are Spencer Smith, right?" he asks, and Spencer is pretty sure that even the most enthusiastic college isn't going to send some guy who looks like he should be serving drinks at the campus bar out to shill for them, and it's not like his grades are that good anyway.

"Maybe," Spencer says shortly, and hits the sidewalk, heading for his grandma's house.

"Look," the guy says earnestly, "I know this sounds nuts, but- this is really important. I've been- I'm Bob, Bob Bryar, and I was sent here to find Spencer Smith. All I know is oldest kid, blond, goes to Bishop Gorman, and," he looks sharply at Spencer, almost like he can see right through him - and Spencer does not, absolutely does not shiver just a little, even under the blue sky and with the summer heat bouncing off the concrete - and goes on to say very precisely, "he or she's probably been having some pretty weird dreams lately. Which is why I'm here."

"What, you're like some kind of sleep specialist?" Spencer asks skeptically, and he's definitely sweating, and this is kind of the most ridiculous conversation he's ever had in his life.

"More like a vampire expert," Bob replies, not all that loudly, and Spencer has a sudden flash memory of the dream he had last night, an ugly face full of teeth coming straight for him, and he definitely goes pale, and the guy - Bob - looks triumphant for a split second, because, yeah, for a guy who's grown up in Vegas, Spencer's poker face leaves a lot to be desired.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," they both say, and then look confused.

"Are you sure you're not a girl?" Bob asks, once he's sure Spencer isn't going to take off on him, and he looks completely pathetic, and if Spencer was a less awesome human being (and hadn't been friends with Ryan his whole life), he would've been tempted to hit him.

"Pretty sure. For, you know, seventeen years or so now."

"And you don't have a sister?"

"Well, yeah, but I'm the only Spencer Smith who lives here. I'm pretty sure my mom would've told me if I had some twin sister chained up in the attic or something."

"I guess, just- it's always been girls," and this Bob guy looks at him, and Spencer can see him tracking the outfit; the light-coloured hoodie that, okay, yes, was from the girls section in the department store, and he can see the comment forming right there in the back of his throat, and Spencer sets his heels and stiffens, so ready to just get the hell out of there and away from this guy already, but then Bob doesn't say anything insulting at all, just forces himself to loosen up a little and says, "Okay."

That's all he says, "Okay, so this is the deal," and even though Spencer will never, ever afterwards be able to explain why, he doesn't turn his back on this guy and run, he follows him down the street to the brightly lit and well-populated shops (because Spencer listens to his instincts, but he's also not completely stupid, thanks), and hears him out.

* * *

It takes a while for Bob to explain, firstly because he seems to choose his words carefully - Spencer thinks wildly that, okay, sure, he probably doesn't get much of a chance to make a good first impression, because the one that he has is more like 'stalker' - and secondly because all of Spencer's cynicism and doubt kick in again before he's even halfway through his mocha, and he doesn't even try to hide the skepticism.

Because, seriously, this guy cannot be for real. If he was anyone else he'd think it was someone trying to pull some kind of stupid prank on him, but he can't think of anyone who would bother doing that to him, and besides, it's not as if he's going to have some kind of hilarious tv-worthy reaction to this. Because, really. Vampires? Right. Like he hasn't seen that movie.

"No, really," Bob says again, and it's not like Spencer believes him, because clearly he's nuts (and oh god, maybe Spencer is too, there's a frightening thought), and he doesn't understand why he hasn't run screaming yet, except instead they're slouched in a quiet corner of the coffee shop, and this guy is talking to him, and he should be creeped out, but he's so earnest and part of Spencer - the part that isn't scared shitless at the idea that this might actually be legit - part of him wants to believe him.

"Look. Just meet me out at Forestville tonight, okay," Bob asks, sighing, "I'll prove it to you then."

Spencer feels his lips turn up in a bit of a sneer, he can't believe he was so close to actually believing this. "Meet you in the deserted graveyard after dark? Right. And I bet you want me to come alone, too. You know what, I've seen this movie, I've read this book, I don't need the lesson the hard way. Sure you didn't want to offer me candy as well? I don't think so, _Bob_." And Spencer gets up and does walk out, not even noticing the stares from the barista, the other people in the shop.

Bob doesn't look after him, just lets his head fall onto the table with a painful thud as he mutters "Why me, shit."

* * *

Spencer is totally late for band practice.

Ryan is really not happy, and makes no bones of letting everyone know it.

Brendon and Brent do their best to divert attention, but nothing either of them can do is really covering for the fact that Ryan just about has steam coming out of his ears - it's Spencer, Spencer is the most ultimately reliable person Ryan knows, Spencer is _never late_ and more importantly, he has never actually refused to tell Ryan why if he is - or that Spencer is completely failing to keep anything like a regular tempo, even with the metronome.

They run through a couple of songs, and when Brent tentatively suggests that maybe they give it a rest for the night - the neighbors will certainly appreciate it, Ryan thinks sourly - and, like, "go get some sodas or movies or something," they all agree embarrassingly fast. Spencer opens his mouth as if he's about to protest, or excuse himself, or something, and Ryan bites his lip before he says something else. He's far too self-aware to not know that this is maybe a time when he could make a bad situation worse, and as much as it sucks, he's going to have to wait for Spence to say something first.

Brendon throws himself into the driver's seat of his van and taps impatiently on the steering wheel while they sort themselves out, and the silent battle of wills between Ryan and Spencer over who gets to sit in the front seat (and resist the urge to grab the wheel if Brendon gets particularly flamboyant in his gestures) and who doesn't have to squash into the back gets resolved unexpectedly when Brent climbs into the passenger seat without even calling shotgun.

It's completely against the standing rules, but Ryan appreciates the gesture, especially now that he's cooled down enough himself to see the way that Spencer is still tensed up, even more than he has been lately, and, okay, yeah, something is not right with this picture. Spencer looks like he hasn't really been sleeping, and insomnia has been Ryan's gig for years now, he knows the symptoms, and that's not at all in the normal Smith Operating Procedures. Ryan is so not letting him get away with this a single day longer, he decides, and feels a little better right away, even though it's not like he has any idea how to actually go about doing that.

Ryan belts up - Brendon nags worse than anyone's mom if they don't, and it's not like Ryan really wants to end with hideous facial injuries from hitting the seat or the windscreen anyway - and slumps back against the door, fiddling with his cuffs as he thinks.

Brendon doesn't manage to get them more than a few blocks before the crappy radio is creeping up in volume, and he sings along cheerfully, and Ryan tries not to think too hard about how he knows for a fact that he's tapping the gas pedal in time with the bass. There but for the grace of god, Ryan adds, mentally, and when Brent grabs the oh-shit handle as they take a corner, all three of them automatically catcall, and when he meets Spencer's eyes, Spencer just gives him a quick look that is 'okay, fine, sorry' and 'I'll tell you later' and 'don't _worry_, Ryan' all at the same time, and then they're laughing and arguing over whether the John Malkovich movie Ryan is pushing for is worth it, or if it's just going to be a pretentious waste of time.

Brendon seconds Ryan's choice, argues with Spencer for two minutes and then they swap sides and argue it back the other way, right up to the counter, and Ryan just hangs back and grins, because his band, seriously.

* * *

They end up watching the movie back at Spencer's place - his mom is usually pretty zen about a pack of teenage boys descending with little warning, and she fends them off with cookies (from a packet, but come on, cookies, like anyone is going to complain, especially if they don't want a lecture on how if they want home-made every single day they're perfectly capable of baking them themselves, boys) and kicks them out of her kitchen and promises dinner later, if they're hungry and their parents don't mind them staying over.

Ryan doesn't really stop to second-guess himself before asking cautiously, "Hey, Spence, um, mind if I stay-" and Spencer shrugs, nods, and says "Sure thing, Ry," as if they were never glaring daggers at each other an hour ago. It's a little close to taking advantage - because Ryan knows Spencer will always, always let him stay, will let him get away with more than he should sometimes, maybe, but the more he sneaks looks at Spencer, out of the corner of his eye, and from over Brendon's shoulder where they're squashed onto the basement couch, the more he thinks that it's a good cause.

The movie isn't even half over when Spencer - curled up in front of the couch, arms tucked under the pillow he's propped up on - drifts off to sleep entirely, and Ryan and Brendon share a quick rueful grin over his head. Their grins fade, fast, when Spencer shifts in his sleep, face screwed up in an expression that isn't the slightest bit peaceful, and moans. It's not the sort of moan that you could make fun of your friends for later, there's nothing silly or even kind of sexual about it. It's high and breathy and sounds kind of fearful, and even though the sound chokes off almost immediately, it's suddenly the only thing Ryan can hear, the movie dialogue receding, his pulse pounding in his ears, tense with uncertainty.

It's not just- he's a little embarrassed, sure, because you're not meant to hear other people sound like that, or not with an audience at least, and maybe it would be different if it was just Ryan, but there's Brent, and Brendon, and Ryan can't help himself at that, meets Brendon's eyes again, and Brendon looks just as freaked, as frozen as he does. Spencer's knotting himself into a ball at their feet, teeth in his lip and shoulders straining, and- they should wake him up, or something, right?

Ryan tucks his feet under himself and reaches down, and it feels harder than it has any right to do to make himself do that much, and his hand is a bare inch above Spencer's shoulder when he shoots back to sudden wakefulness, one hand moving almost impossibly fast to bat Ryan's hand away from his body, and the only reason Ryan doesn't get hit is that his reflexes kick in just in time to pull back, setting him off balance and tipping sideways on the couch.

Spencer sits bolt upright, eyes wide and huge in the dim room, rolling up onto his knees so that he's facing the three of them on the couch, staring from Ryan to Brendon to Brent, and for just that split-second Ryan can see he doesn't recognise any of them, still half-caught in his dream, and then awareness floods in, followed by shock and the sort of crushing embarrassment that Ryan is all too familiar with.

"Fuck, fuck, Ry, I'm sorry, did I- I wasn't expecting, um," and Spencer trails off and scrubs his hands wearily over his eyes, looking poleaxed and not a little horrified.

"He's speedy like a _fox_," Brendon offers, clearly trying to soothe, and yeah, he's got one hand rubbing over the back of Ryan's neck, thumb digging into the space between his neckbones and shoulder, and he's nudging his toe against Spencer's side like an overgrown friendly puppy, and Ryan lets himself lean against Brendon, just a little. Just for a second.

Spencer doesn't look particularly soothed, he just looks- wild, and freaked still, and it makes Ryan's throat ache.

"Um, bad dream, I guess," he says, and then a bit less shakily, "Hey, do you guys mind if we do this, I dunno, later-?" and the last fraying yard of tension sort of snaps then, as they all leap on the excuse as if it was an invitation. Brent excuses himself to head home for dinner, and Brendon slides bonelessly off the couch and onto the floor beside Spencer, careful not to touch him (Ryan's throat aches a little more, at that) and asks quietly if he wants them to stay or not.

Spencer just opens his mouth, clearly changes his mind, looks almost defeated and says, "Yes, please."

Dinner is subdued, despite their best efforts to put on a normal face, and after they all help to clear the table and load the dishwasher, Spencer's dad just says something fond and indulgent about teenagers and waves them off again.

They move up to Spencer's room without any clear discussion of the choice - and it seems almost wrong that the sun's still up, light flooding the rest of the house and the cicadas buzzing angrily from the trees. Spencer drops heavily onto his bed while Ryan and Brendon take their usual poses on desk and chair respectively, and he plays with his laces in silence for a minute or two.

"So, this guy stopped me on the way to practice this afternoon," he starts, finally, and it's so not even remotely close to anything that Ryan would've ever expected him to say then that he makes some kind of completely undignified noise. Brendon, who clearly has no sense of occasion, snickers at him, tries to hide the grin under a cough and his sleeve, and Spencer just rolls his eyes at them both and keeps talking.

"And, okay, it was really kind of weird, and we ended up talking down at the coffee house for a while, and I thought he was just messing with me, but- I've been having these dreams lately, and I think- I dunno, maybe he can help me."

Brendon gives Ryan a look that point-blank demands, 'you're the best friend, _you_ say something!' and Ryan says sort of helplessly, "Spence, are you saying you want to, um, go pick up guys at a club, or something? It wouldn't bother me at all, I mean- you're- I- just, um, don't you think it might be safer to try guys our age first?"

Spencer just stares blankly at him for a second. "Ry- what the hell? Oh my god, did you think I was _coming out _to you?"

Ryan stares back. "It sounded like it! What did you expect us to think?"

Brendon mutters something under his breath that might bear some resemblance to "who needs to, this is the straightest band this side of Queen," but then again it might not and both Ryan and Spencer ignore him with equally stiff dignity.

"I was going to ask," Spencer says in defeat, "if you guys could give me a ride to where I'm meeting him, and then I can _talk to him_ some more and maybe figure out what the fuck is going on. Ry, if you still want to stay over you could just stay here, I-"

"No way, Spence," Ryan replies, because, seriously, what did Spencer think he was, "I'll come with you."

"He said I had to come alone- and yeah, I know what you're thinking, and I said the same thing to him, but it's okay, I think. He seemed like a decent guy."

Ryan keeps his private thoughts about that to himself, and follows Spencer and Brendon down the stairs. They're getting back into Brendon's van when Bren asks "so, where exactly are you meeting this guy again?" and it's damned lucky for everyone that Brendon drives a shitty car with a motor that's not exactly brand new, because when Spencer admits "Forestville", Ryan's disbelieving curse of "Are you fucking _kidding_?" (Spencer is meant to be the sensible one!) is swallowed up by the exhaust.

* * *

It's just starting to get dark - or, at least, as dark as Vegas gets - as Brendon pulls into the drive leading into Forestville cemetery. The gates are barred and locked, and the three of them exchange looks, because, well, it's a cemetery. It's inherently creepy, especially at night.

"Spence, are you sure-?" Ryan asks, curling his hands so his fingernails dig in to the seat belt, hidden under his palm. If he needs to, he can be out of the car in a second to follow Spencer (or drag him back, he's really not sure what he'd rather do). Just about every single bone in his body is screaming 'bad move bad move bad move,' disturbed on a level that he doesn't think he's usually conscious of.

Spencer stops halfway out the door, and looks back at them, face pale under the flickering interior light. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Just, like, wait here? I won't be long, I guess."

He jogs over to the side of the drive in the pool of light under the overhead floodlight, sneakers muffled on the asphalt and scales the fence with a grace that Ryan sure doesn't remember him having in gym class or on the jungle gyms in elementary school, even. Spencer's been filling out, getting smoother and more sure in his body lately, though, and - that evening's dismal practice aside - it's been showing in his playing, too.

* * *

Spencer drops lightly to the thin grass of the cemetery proper, steadies himself with a hand on the wall, and then looks around to get his bearings. His pulse is thudding along steadily, faking nonchalance just as well as the rest of him. Even as he sees a figure that looks (so much as he remembers, at least) vaguely Bob-shaped over by a stand of young pines and lopes towards him, his mind is running circles around the whole thing. Thinking 'seriously, this is bullshit. This isn't happening. There's no such thing as vampires. There's not. There's totally a logical explanation for everything, and it's not like Scully was always wrong, right?' and then despite it all, despite the fucking scary-ass dream that had him nearly hit Ryan of all people two hours ago, he sort of distracts himself by trying to remember back through enough reruns of the X Files to a time when Scully was actually definitely for sure right and Mulder was clearly smoking the good stuff. He's a little disconcerted when Bob kind of looms up out of the darkness and says "Hi. Wasn't sure you were gonna show, Smith. Good to see you." And Spencer hasn't actually thought of anything yet, but then that's why the internet exists and he can totally check when he gets home.

...if he, you know, gets home. Regardless of what he told Ryan and Brendon, the jury is sort of still out on the 'Bob as potential axe murderer' thing.

"So. You wanted to meet me, you said you'd explain what the hell is happening to me. I'm here, so... start talking."

Bob looks a little taken aback. "You sure don't waste any time," he observes.

Spencer just barely - only just barely, and only because it is so fucking cliched and he has more class than that - resists the urge to lean on a handy tree and tap his watch.

"Look, are you for real? Because, seriously, if you're messing with me-"

Bob looks completely serious again, and it makes something in Spencer's gut go tight and hot, nerves and anticipation, something both familiar and deeply uncomfortable at the same time. "Oh, I'm for real. And I think you're about to be signing on as a true believer yourself any minute now."

Spencer frowns, because if this is a new angle for the Jehovah's witnesses, well- it has originality, that's for sure.

"Here," Bob says, and slaps something solid and wooden into Spencer's palm, unhurriedly shifting his hand so that he's curled Spencer's fingers around it before he's quite realised that Bob is right in his personal space, but he moves so smoothly - Spencer's mind catches and hitches on that for a moment, because, seriously, Bob practically melted right out of his reach, and that's not normal either. "You're probably gonna need that in a minute," Bob goes on, and a tiny glint catching in the reflected light of moon and stars (and a fuckload of casinos) means Spencer notices that, hey, he has a lip ring. Which he's chewing on.

Spencer takes a totally embarrassing moment to reflect on just how hot that is (and how, okay, so maybe he could've admitted something else to Ryan and Brendon this afternoon after all, but it's not like it's any great secret anyway, really. It's not like he's in the market for a boyfriend or anything like that, so who even cares anyway, right?), and consequently, he misses everything right up to the moment when Bob spins away from him with a strangled curse, and the world goes into some kind of crazy slow motion and his reflexes take over.

He ducks in advance of a barely felt movement of air at the back of his neck, pivoting on one foot and leaning his weight back into a long retreating step. There's- there's a thing standing right where he had been, incongruously formal clothing under a hissing face, screwed up with dull eyes and what look like way too many teeth, brow prominent like in those Neanderthal drawings they'd studied in school, and it's reaching for him. He couldn't say how he knows, but it's _hungry_ and for the first time in his life, Spencer has a gut-deep appreciation of just what that whole food chain business is about.

"No," he whispers, and the thing clearly hasn't spent much time around teenagers lately, because it growls "begging isn't going to help you, boy" and the thing is... Spencer wasn't. There is no fucking way something that looks like a bad special effect out of an eighties movie is getting its teeth into him. Not for a second.

"I don't think so," he says more evenly, and okay, maybe he should've said something snappier, but fuckssake, he's not Batman, and he doesn't have five guys to work out the most torturous pun for the situation, so it's going to have to do, and he slides smoothly forward into a lunge, his right hand coming up over his shoulder and aims the stake - because that's what Bob's handed him, a wooden stake, and the part of his brain not busy freaking the fuck out or in denial notes absently that it has the kind of balance he looks for in a good pair of sticks. There's a flicker of confusion on the vamp's face and then he's hitting a nauseating resistance for just a second, and then the thing explodes into dust at his feet, clothes and all.

All the coordination goes out of his system in a rush, and Spencer sits down hard, fighting the urge to throw up. Did he-? He just _killed_ something, and it turned into dust, and what the fuck is going on?

"What the fuck is going on?" Spencer asks, for what feels like the hundredth time.

Bob settles himself on the ground by Spencer - again, a carefully judged distance away, and looks clearly relieved.

"That was a vampire."

"No shit," Spencer interrupts bitchily, because, seriously, duh. Bob kind of doesn't even blink.

"A vampire who had just risen, and was about to go out on the town hunting. You stopped him. Like you were meant to. Like you were born to." And somehow, Bob doesn't look as weird spouting what sounds like B movie dialogue as Spencer thinks he should. It's like part of him was just waiting to hear this, and is nodding its head in agreement, yes. Of course, that doesn't mean that Sane, Sensible, 21st Century Spencer is going down without a fight.

"You know how ridiculous that sounds, right?" he asks.

"You're asking me that? What kinds of smoke and mirrors d'you think are in my budget, Smith," Bob asks, clearly rhetorically, gesturing to his beat-up docs and clean-but-clearly-vintage punk t-shirt. "You just saw a vampire turn to dust, right in front of you. Uh. All over your shoes, actually," he observes, and Spencer takes that as his cue to look down and- yeah. His shoes are filthy, and if he even thinks about where that dust came from he's going to have to toss them out and never wear them ever again, which would be a crime against good shoes and goddamnit, Spencer is so not okay with all of this.

"Can we just- talk about this like normal guys, and not go into all the foreboding mystical woo woo shit?" he asks, a little pathetically, and Bob barks out a laugh.

"We're not normal guys, though, Spencer. Or. I'm a normal guy. You're a slayer."

Spencer thinks there really should've been some kind of dramatic crash of cymbals there, but instead all there is are the cicadas screaming away from the bushes.

"One girl- guy, in your case, and believe me, that's unprecedented - in all the world to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. And even if we weren't sure at first, that little move there confirmed it. You're up, kid."

They are clearly going to have to go over all this again some time later, because Spencer figures he's only catching one word in five, buzzing a little with adrenaline, and also he's pretty sure that Bob had just called him a girl _again_.

"Can I get more than just the Cliff Notes version?"

Bob stands, extending his arm to help Spencer get back on his feet, and leads him over to his car - a beat-up looking Honda, parked at the back entrance to the graveyard. "Can you meet me after you're finished with school tomorrow? I can sit you down, give you the whole Discovery Channel lecture series. It'll make a bit more sense then, I think. Right now you should get home, catch up on a bit of sleep. The dreams should taper off a bit now that you're actually out there doing what you're meant to, but... pay attention to them anyway. It seems like you guys get a little precog wired in sometimes, and any kind of warning about what's coming is going to come in handy."

"Why are you doing this?" Spencer manages to ask, and it's not the most obvious question, but it's about all he's got left right now, and shit, Ryan and Brendon have got to be worrying by now, and if he's not careful they'll have called the cops on him, or worse, come looking. He thinks about that thing going after his friends, and goes hot and cold all over, a disconcerting blend of rage and fear washing through him. No. _No_ way, never.

Bob smiles at him one more time, and it's almost sad, in a way, which is just the fucking confusing cherry on top of this entire cake of incomprehensible crazytimes, and says, "I'm your Watcher. Guess what I do?"

"Quoting Kevin Smith movies is not actually going to make me feel better about all of this," Spencer deadpans back, except he's lying, because it kind of does, a little. "See you tomorrow, I guess, then," and he follows the boundary fence to the corner, heading back the long way towards Brendon's car. For some reason, he doesn't really feel like cutting back across the graveyard right then.

* * *

Spencer gets back to the entranceway to find Brendon and Ryan walking little circles on the concrete drive in front of the car, looking in opposite directions, clearly waiting for him. Ryan's got his phone in his hand and he's flipping it open and closed in a nervous tic which reinforces to Spencer just how close they must've come to freaking out and calling someone. Honestly, he's not sure whether the police or his parents would be worse.

"Spence!" Brendon yells, and looks relieved, bounding over to tug him back to the car, shoving him into the back seat and turning to glare at Ryan, who's not exactly dawdling himself, climbing into the front seat with Brendon and twisting around as soon as the door's slammed to stare at Spencer.

"So what was all of this about, Spencer?" Ryan asks, deadpan as usual, and it overlaps with Brendon's "dude, seriously, you're filthy, did you fall down a hole or something?", the question tossed over his shoulder as he reverses out of the drive at only marginally unwise speeds.

"Um," Spencer replies because he hasn't actually come up with a very good cover story at all, and that's something else he should probably ask Bob about tomorrow. Why shouldn't Ryan and Brendon know, anyway? He has a feeling the answer to that question is probably something like "how would you like a tour of Nevada's most charming mental health institutions?" or maybe the whole Men In Black "a person is smart, people are stupid" spiel, but... it's Ryan and _Brendon_. If there's anyone else in the world who would believe him, it's them.

Of course, if there's anyone else in the world who'd think they had to get involved and would maybe get hurt-- Spencer thinks back to how he'd felt when he thought they could've ended up facing that vampire, and bites his lip. He can't tell them. Not right now, anyway.

"It was- I tripped on something, a gravestone I guess, didn't even rip my jeans though, so it's fine. And we just talked a bit, Bob's- the guy I met, he seems like he's aboveboard."

Ryan sounds a little strangled, "Spencer, he wanted to meet you at a _graveyard_. Normal people go to coffee shops."

"He needed to show me something," Spencer says, and he can see in the rear-vision mirror that Brendon is opening his mouth to ask what, and Ryan is just frowning unhappily, and this sucks, and he just slouches back into the upholstery, letting his head thunk onto the window and his eyes close. "Look, I'm kinda tired, can we talk about this later, guys? I just want to go home."

"Sure," Brendon says quietly, and drops them both back at Spencer's, waving through the window and waiting till they've got the front door open before he drives off, and it's only when Ryan follows him inside and under the splash of lighting in the hall that his mom's left on for them that Spencer notices the knees of Ryan's jeans are just as gritty and dust-coated as his own. Like Spencer maybe wasn't the only one who climbed that wall tonight, because he sure doesn't think that Brendon and Ryan have stopped dancing around each other enough yet to have been doing anything else that would be leaving those kind of marks.

He swallows down the questions crowding his tongue - did you see, what did you see, are you okay? - and just heads straight for his bedroom, cracking his neck a little, trying to stretch out the residual soreness from weeks of broken sleep.

Ryan curls up on the cot beside his bed in equal silence, and Spencer hits the light switch, leaving them both in the dim wash of light sneaking through the edges of his curtains from the streetlight outside. He kind of wants to curl up against the wall, his back to everything and everyone and just not think at all, but he can't quite let himself do that, and Ryan is just looking at him, hair flattened messily against the pillow.

The words sneak out before he can stop himself, the whisper far too loud in the sleeping house. "Did you-" and Ryan just shakes his head, the whites of his eyes almost glowing as he doesn't drop Spencer's gaze for a second, "Leave it for the morning, Spencer. You're exhausted."

They hold the look for a couple seconds longer, a wordless discussion, no need to actually ask, and just as the first shiver of reaction shakes Spencer from toes to fingertips, Ryan unwinds himself from his blankets and slides in beside him, pulling the spare blankets over the both of them, tucking his angles against Spencer's side, the way they always seem to fit. He ducks his head against Spencer's shoulder, and Spencer can feel the thin cotton of his t-shirt ripple as Ryan huffs a few warm breaths against him.

"Your nose is cold," he observes almost steadily, and Ryan just ducks his head to press his pointy chin and pointy nose even harder against Spencer's shoulder, and says, "Shut _up_", and feeling unaccountably better, Spencer lets his eyes drift closed one last time and does just that.

* * *


	2. How the West Was Won

* * *

He feels almost as dopey the next morning when he wakes up after a night of solid sleep as he had been when he hadn't been getting much rest at all. It's a little throwing. Ryan was up before him, and was halfway through his breakfast by the time Spencer makes it downstairs (okay, so he isn't really a morning person. At all. It's totally genetic and not his fault).

Ryan's lack of car and Spencer's lack of license mean that they're walking to school, and it isn't until they're halfway there, the buzz of traffic and noise feeling so ridiculously normal, that Spencer manages to ask the question he's pretty sure he knows the answer to anyway.

"You and Brendon followed me last night, right?"

Ryan nods.

"And you- what'd you see?" In a way, he'd almost be glad to hear Ryan say nothing, suggest that he somehow hallucinated the whole thing (he carefully doesn't think of the shoes he shoved to the back of the hall closet, coated in dust and grime).

"Saw you hit a guy, and then he just vanished into a puff of smoke. And since I don't exactly remember smoking anything illegal, all we could figure is-"

"Vampire," Spencer finishes for him, and if ever there was a time to turn green, or just look pale and consumptive like in some Victorian novel, this is probably it. Somehow he doesn't think his coloring is going to work for that, though.

Ryan actually looks less disbelieving than Spencer thinks he must've, and either that means that it was a lot more convincing from not-up-close-and-personal, or he was kind of in shock at the time. Three guesses there.

"What'd Brendon think? Is he- is he freaked out?" Brendon had seemed pretty normal - as normal as Brendon ever got - in the car the night before, but then Brendon, appearances to the contrary, was alarmingly good at wearing a facade when he felt it was necessary.

"No more than me," Ryan finally answers, which is probably the best Spencer's going to get out of him, and shit, he can't believe he has to make it through a day of school after all of this, he just wants to go find Bob - and how is he going to do that, anyway? They never actually made plans on where to meet, though probably Bob can just use his creepy ninja powers and find Spencer anyway - and find out exactly what the hell is going on here.

"Also, no practice tonight," Ryan goes on, "because what Brendon is is grounded. We didn't exactly make it back under his curfew last night," and Spencer makes a face that is both apologetic and kind of crabby, and Ryan actually shoots him a rare smile and says, "He'll get out of it soon enough. And I think he'll sneak back in a little more carefully next time, too."

Because Spencer is a good friend and a good person, he mercifully does not actually say anything to Ryan about how he's awfully familiar with Brendon's ability to get in and out of his house. Or about how it's not even nine in the morning and he's clearly spoken to Brendon already.

"C'mon," he says to Ryan, as they turn at the next stop light, "hurry up, we're gonna be late."

"You didn't really explain anything yet, Spence," Ryan points out, catching up without even really trying, stupid long legs, and Spencer just shrugs again, one-shouldered, and says "Ryan, I promise, as soon as I find out more, I'll tell you guys."

He figures this should feel a little ridiculously Hardy Boys, or maybe Scooby Doo; that they're planning to meet up and talk about _supernatural monsters_, except after last night he's pretty sure that not all the bad guys out there are criminals in masks, or even human, and those really aren't the sorts of thoughts that are conducive to not, say, failing out of his junior year, so as hard as it is, he knuckles down and does his best to actually care about why electrons do whatever, and what linear algebra actually has to say about the real world (not that much, Spencer privately maintains, but his math teacher does not agree).

* * *

He and Ryan don't have the same lunch period any more, so Spencer just tucks himself away and eats quietly with a few of the other kids he's friendly with and doesn't say much. He's only got two classes after lunch, and the first one is music, which for Spencer usually means either extra jazz band or marching band practice. It's meant to be marching band that afternoon, and Spencer is definitely looking forward to the opportunity to just mindlessly hit things for fifty minutes, except then he walks into the classroom to see a substitute teacher writing on the whiteboard.

He's squeezing his name in broad marker strokes above the measures they'd been having trouble with last time, which are drawn out in triple size ("because I think some of you are going blind," Mr P. had said, trying to scowl much more fiercely than an old guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt was ever going to seriously pull off), and it reads "Mr Bryar".

The guy turns around and Spencer makes a (thankfully muffled) "nrgh!" sound in the back of his throat, because it's _Bob_, and he shoots Spencer the ghost of a wink before saying matter of factly to the class, who've pretty much all drifted in by now and are taking their seats with a low speculative hum of conversation, "Hi, I'm Mr Bryar. As I bet you've guessed, I'm going to be taking marching band - and some of the music classes - for the next while, since Mr Pelissier has a family emergency. I've got some pretty good notes on what you're working on right now and the class plan, so unless you're all sitting in the wrong place to mess with me, I think we'll just go on with that. Remind me of your names whenever you stick your hands up, and maybe I'll have them all down before next month." The class laughs obediently, and Spencer is not, at all, thinking wild and kind of freaked out conspiracy theories about how the hell Bob is suddenly here, in his school, and what's happened to Mr P.

"In the meantime," Bob says, "I'll just point and say 'hey you'. Got it?"

There's the usual teenage mutter of agreement, although it's maybe a little more enthusiastic than usual, because, okay, Bob is a lot younger than most of the teachers at Bishop Gorman. And doesn't exactly look, um. Catholic. Although he's clearly toned the dress sense down a lot, there's still Docs on his feet and jewellery in his lip and his ears, and, well, frankly Bob just looks like the kid that's about two steps away from getting suspended. Marching band is definitely about to get a lot more popular.

Spencer manages to make it through the class fairly well, although he has a bad moment when Bob has one of the other guys move out from behind the full kit they have set up for jazz band so he can demonstrate something, and holy shit, can he play. Spencer is maybe having a completely inappropriate reaction to a person in authority, but- Jeez. He has a wild moment where he wonders if he can maybe get some private drum lessons as well, because, seriously.

He dawdles a little on his way out of the classroom - it just seems like the obvious thing to do (so obvious that Maryanne James and Katie Ashdown are doing the same thing), and Bob looks up from the corner where he's sort of shoving some sheet music back into an overflowing file folder and says, almost as if it's an afterthought, "Hey, Smith, stop by after school if you like, I think Mr Pelissier left me some stuff you wanted, too." Spencer does not grin like an idiot, and just says "Sure thing, Mr Bryar," and dashes off to his next class.

He somehow does not get caught texting Ryan from under the desk in geography, but that's more good luck than good management, especially when Ryan texts him with "Bden + I can spy frm utility closet nxt door y/y?" because, god, Ryan, some jokes are just way too easy.

"N!!" Spencer texts back, flipping past something about the carbon cycle in inland areas in his textbook, "Bden wldn't b out of school b4 thn anyway, Ry. i'll b fine. meet me @ HOME."

Brendon's (and Brent's) school is pretty close to theirs, but there's still no way he'd be able to get over there right after the final bell rings; besides which, the school gets really, really touchy about non-students on the property, and anyway, Spencer isn't sure he wants witnesses for whatever is going to happen when he's talking to Bob. Plus, he's really not sure he wants to be responsible for cramming Ryan and Brendon together into a small space for who knows how long.

They're both tiny people and all, but Brendon has the energy of half a dozen puppies rolled into one undersized frame, and Ryan isn't filled with endless patience, and also, Spencer didn't exactly need to have been sneaking looks at Queer as Folk over the years to read the sparks between the two of them. They might both be still steaming ahead under the power of denial, but Spencer is mostly just stuck on hoping that whenever they do get their acts together it isn't going to mess up their friendship. Because as much as he loves Ryan - and he totally does - just not, you know, like _that_ \- he really doesn't want to have to stop being friends with Brendon as well. Brendon is totally fucking awesome. He and Brent have had more than one not-conversation about it by now, although those usually devolve into manly coughing and not meeting each others eyes while they play Tour of Duty or Grand Theft Auto before practice.

* * *

Spencer edges into the band room a few minutes after the final bell has run, the corridors still echoing with kids running and laughing and slamming lockers, feeling his stomach twist a little with nerves.

Bob looks up from his desk by the corner, smiles in a way that is so obviously meant to be reassuring and totally isn't, and says "Hey, Spencer. Sit down." He gestures to the front row, so Spencer dumps his bag on the floor and hoists himself up onto the desk so he's facing Bob, one ankle resting on his knee and his free leg swinging a little.

"So," Bob starts, fiddling with his mouse a little before coming to some sort of internal decision and getting up to walk around his desk and leaning on that, more on eye level with Spencer. Obviously they taught that kind of thing in Mysterious All-Knowing Dude school, or something. "Taking 'sounding like a total tool' as a given, let me tell you the deal.

"First, I gotta apologise for dumping this on you with, well, no warning. You were a little harder to find than we'd expected, and normally you'd be getting most of this talk - although probably not believing it, so, hey, unexpected bonus - before you ended up in the field. At least, that's our goal." Spencer opens his mouth to ask who 'us' is, but figures Bob will probably get there and just shuts up. "The thing is, we've been having difficulty finding people before the bad guys do lately, and instinct is only good for so much. So you're still here, which is a giant fucking relief, not just because no one likes getting kids killed," and 'fuck fuck fuck', thinks Spencer again, because there are levels of 'grown up' and 'serious' that he doesn't think he ever wants to be ready for, "but well. Actually, that's pretty much it. Way to not be dead, let's do what we can to keep it that way."

"Um," Spencer says cleverly, and grabs for his water bottle with slightly numb fingers, staring at Bob a little.

Bob clears his throat. "Sorry, I'm probably not doing this very well. I've never actually had to do this before-"

"Wow, can't tell," Spencer says quietly and very sarcastically, because seriously, it's not his fault he's kind of a smart-ass under the solid A-and-B student exterior, and Bob glares at him and looks a little more relaxed.

"You're my first slayer, Smith, so I guess we're going to have to muddle on together. Like I said last night, you're special. A slayer. Which means it's your crappy-ass luck to have to fight evil and avert the supernatural equivalent of Three Mile Island every now and then, and it's my crappy-ass luck that I get to be the guy who trains you and has your back."

"And there's no appeal?" Spencer asks, and Bob says quietly, sincerely, "No. Sorry, kid, it's- well, it's pretty much us, or Them." The capital letter is pretty obvious.

"That really sucks," Spencer says, and figures it's not going to sink in for a while just how bad. Because- this is his life, and some guy's just waltzed on in and told him that he's not in control anymore? Spencer is so not cool with that.

Bob doesn't even try to argue. "Yeah, it does. And if I could- well, if wishes were horses, there'd be a lot more people getting kicked in the stomach occasionally, you know?" Spencer laughs, just for half a beat.

"The story goes, one g- one person, in all the world, stands up for humanity, for the good guys, holding a torch in the darkness, whatever fucking metaphor you like. And as your Watcher, it means I train you, get you fitter, smarter, stronger, research if something unusual comes up-"

"This is Vegas," Spencer argues, "how would you even notice?"

Bob laughs at him, this time, and it sends a little bead of warmth through him. "You'll notice, trust me."

"So how do we do this, then?" Spencer asks, because apparently somewhere in the course of this talk, he's committed entirely. Maybe he should be committed, as in, in a whole other sense entirely, but- okay, yeah. He kind of has to do this.

Bob straightens up, light on his feet and makes a 'follow me' gesture at Spencer. "First, we hit my place for some gear and some books. Then you get some homework," Spencer groans, and Bob just intones piously "know thy enemy," before finishing the sentence in a more normal tone, "and then I take you out to Forestville again and we figure out a patrol circuit. You'll cover that every night until we can build up an idea of what kind of patterns we're dealing with, and cut back a bit then."

"When am I meant to do my actual homework, then?"

Bob's reply of "study hall" is a little merciless.

Another thought cannonballs into the front of Spencer's mind.

"Hey- what am I going to tell my parents? And I have band practice three nights a week, too." And he can't give that up, he just- he can't.

Bob pauses at the door, answering, "You can't tell your parents anything, Spencer. Even if they believe you it just- it puts them in danger, too. And I don't think they'd be too keen on the thought of you putting yourself in danger, either. Not gonna sugarcoat this, you're going to have to sneak out sometimes, and you're going to have to lie to them. I'll do what I can with 'band rehearsal' and notes, but some of it is going to be unavoidable. Your band practice, um, I guess. You need to train as much as possible, but we can do some of that in the mornings. If it's still daylight, you can probably still make some of that, but- look, you'll see. And I'm serious about the parents- you can't tell them, you can't tell your friends, girlfriend, whatever."

"Lone hero, huh?" Spencer says, trying desperately to sound a lot cooler with that - god, it sounds pretty horrible, no wonder Batman was so fucked up - than he is.

Bob makes a face. "Yep. Just you."

"And you."

"And me, not you should need much. You did damn good last night for a first time, actually," and Spencer fidgets for a second and then asks the _other_ question he should've asked last night.

"What would you have done if I hadn't? You could've got me killed!"

There's total confidence in Bob's expression as he replies, "Just one vamp? I might be normal, but I'm fast and I've been in training my whole life, I could've taken him. Just needed to give you a second first to see if you had it. Which you did, luckily for me." He doesn't go on any further, but it seems a pretty obvious next step that a lot of people would've seen that and turned into a screaming mess for quite some time. Bob seems kind of like a ninja and kind of super-capable, but also maybe like he's the kind of guy who really doesn't cope well with screaming messes. Spencer likes to think he's good at reading people, that way.

"So, feel like trying out your first sparring session, Spencer?" Bob asks, and gives him an address to meet him at (because, okay, yes, probably it might look just a little suspicious if a high school kid is getting rides from a teacher, even if he is only the band teacher and in three days a week).

* * *

Bob's place is pretty much a stereotypical bachelor two bedroom, ratty old couch in the living room that's probably been there as long as Spencer's been alive, and boxes everywhere from where he clearly hasn't really made much of an effort to unpack. There's a half filled book case by the tv (game console already hooked in, so Spencer thinks 'definitely human, definitely a guy'), with "Ooh, Guitar Hero?" Spencer can't help himself, he sort of drifts a little closer. It's the new version, too, and they haven't even had a chance to play it yet.

Bob snorts, and hauls him back by the shoulder. "Maybe later. We've got stuff to do now," and Spencer lets himself be led downstairs, to what is very much not a typical basement.

It's well-lit, bright lights without that awful fluorescent flicker, smooth polished wooden floor, mirrors along one wall like a gym (like his sister's dancing studio), a pile of mats, and a locked cupboard that makes Spencer's fingers itch a little, just looking at it.

Bob just silently points at the corner and indicates for Spencer to dump his bag and books, and then come back over to the center of the room.

It turns out Bob's idea of training is firstly a shitload of jumping jacks, and the only reason Spencer isn't panting by the time Bob lets him stop is that Bob's doing them right alongside him, and if Bob's fit enough for that, well, Spencer isn't going to let himself look any worse. Then there's something that may have been yoga, or possibly yoga's fucked up adopted half-brother, and some more stretching and bending, and then Bob has him lift some weights, frowning a little as if he's making mental notes.

And then he pulls a fine chain out from under his shirt, twists his hand a little and tugs a key off it, which he takes over to the corner and uses to unlock the cupboard there. Turns out that what's inside there are a whole bunch of weapons - wooden staffs, stakes like the one he'd handed Spencer the night before in the graveyard, stuff Spencer couldn't even put a name to that looks like the extra props from every movie released in the last thirty years. There's even a _broadsword_.

Bob takes out two of the staffs, hands one to Spencer, and moves back to the center of the room.

Spencer looks down at the carved and polished wood in his hands, gives it an experimental twirl.

"Well, what are you waiting for," Bob asks, faintly mocking. "Let's get into this."

* * *

Training passes in a blur of near-bruises and reflexes that Spencer definitely never knew he had (but is pretty fucking thankful for), the thwack of wood on wood, and the occasional muffled curse from Bob when Spencer actually manages to land a blow or two. Bob keeps talking the whole time, more details about the whole slaying business ("Pointy end in them, Smith, but I think you got that one already"), who he is ("The Watcher's council are... well, they're in charge of finding slayers, getting them a watcher, paying my rent, which is nice, cos that school of yours sure doesn't pay much, but they're not important now"), and what Spencer's meant to be spending all his free time doing ("Fighting evil, did you miss that the first ten times?")

Bob seems to be making some kind of half-hearted attempt to remember that he's meant to be, like, a good example and all that kind of thing, which so far mostly seems to be manifesting as him wincing a little when he does swear, and then forgetting ten seconds later and talking to Spencer as if he's, like, almost an equal or something. It's actually pretty cool, and Spencer has to admit that if someone had told him he'd be doing something like this, ever, he'd have kind of expected some kind of grumpy Mister Miyaki-type guy. Bob is just- Bob. Acting like any of the guys Spencer talks to sometimes at the music store down by the freeway, friendly enough but with a helluva lot more life and experience hiding obviously behind his expression, leaking out into what he says and does.

Bob lets him go with just enough time to race home before dinner, shoving a couple of stakes into his backpack for him ("Just in case.") and warning him to be waiting at the corner at sundown for Bob to pick him up. Spencer nods carefully and jogs off, covering the distance between Bob's place and his own in just under twenty minutes. If he doesn't get himself, like, killed horribly or something in the next few weeks, maybe he should join the track team or something.

Ryan's there almost the second Spencer gets up to help clear the table, and he sort of throws a few knives and forks into the appropriate drawer before giving up and just sort of lurking by the kitchen island twitching, and then Spencer's mom takes pity on them and sends them off "since it looks like you've got something to talk about, boys." Spencer would hate how easily she could read them if it didn't usually end with hugs and cookies when you needed them, and space to sort your own shit out when she thought you needed that, too. Okay, so Spencer's mom is pretty much awesome.

They head up to Spencer's bedroom - there's a little more assurance of privacy there than the basement, which involves the threat of sisters walking in at any time - and Spencer drops to the floor, leaning against the bed while Ryan snags a pillow off the bed and leans against that, long fingers tapping on his knee.

Spencer opens his mouth to start, with no real idea of what he's going to say, and then a rustle from behind him catches his attention, sending him spinning around, hands coming up in a guard position, just in time to catch Brendon tumbling through his window and rolling across the bed, knocking Spencer - and then, by extension Ryan - like ninepins.

He wriggles out from underneath Brendon's flailing limbs to give him his best glare.

"Brendon, fuck, my mother doesn't know you're grounded, come in the front door next time, will you?"

Brendon just grins unrepentantly, climbs up Ryan's body to get to his feet and throws himself back onto the bed with abandon, head cocked invitingly.

"Okay, fine. Jeez." Spencer bites at his lip, and then starts explaining again, from when Bob had stopped him on the sidewalk, to the night before at the cemetery ("Wow, that's actually grosser from close up," Brendon observes, and Ryan glares at him this time, which saves Spencer a whole seven seconds of effort, which he appreciates), to the stuff he said at training that afternoon.

"...and I'm totally not meant to tell you guys any of this, do you understand?" Spencer finishes, gaze moving from Ryan's look of concern to twist a little and look up at Brendon, wearing a fairly similar look. "If you hadn't decided to get nosy-"

"Excuse us for caring," Ryan says under his breath, earning another dirty look from Spencer.

"If you hadn't got nosy you wouldn't have known, Ry. And it's not that I want to keep secrets from you or anything, it's just- it's dangerous." His voice is quiet as he goes on. "I don't want you guys to get hurt."

"We don't want you getting hurt, either, Spence," Ryan says stolidly, and Brendon is nodding, almost as if the two of them have discussed this which, huh, is maybe not as unlikely as it seems, and oh god, Spencer is totally fucking doomed, because-

"We can help," Brendon says earnestly, just about bouncing off the bed again with eagerness, and oh, yeah. Doomed.

* * *

Spencer's first official patrol goes pretty well - or at least, he doesn't get hurt, and he doesn't see anyone but the newly-risen dead get hurt either, which is apparently a good night's work, according to Bob. He gives Spencer a brief nod when he drops him back on the corner of his block where he can sneak back in himself (and he's going to have to be super careful, too, because Brendon totally left footprints in the garden when he was sneaking in, and Spencer so doesn't want to get sprung on the basis of someone else's evidence).

The second night's patrol - a little longer, a little further afield, and yeah, it's starting to get just a little more difficult to get up in the mornings - goes reasonably well too. Spencer manages to knock an older vamp off a groundskeeper who was out a little too late and takes care of that before the man is more than a little scratched up and a lot freaked out. Bob works some kind of fast-talking mojo - and Spencer had always known that whole 'gang members on PCP' thing was exaggerated by the media, ha, and god did that explain a lot - and they get the guy back in his car and headed for home or the emergency room without too much trouble. Spencer is - he hopes - the only one who spots a purple van parked a few hundred yards down the sidewalk from their starting point, and the only one who catches a glimpse in his peripheral vision of a dark head ducking back behind a tree. And god, but he's going to _kill them_ tomorrow for this.

By the time he gets home, Spencer's head is aching from the strain of having to try to find any vampires in the area (Bob claims he should be able to, like, sense them, but Spencer is taking that with a grain of salt still, thank you very fucking much), to look out for himself, and trying to make sure that Ry and Brendon don't get bit as well. He pulls his head out from under the pillow once he's in just long enough to send a bitchy text to each of them demanding firstly that they let him know they are, in fact, still alive and not craving hemoglobin, and secondly that they promise to never ever do that to him again.

Ryan just texts back incomprehensible phrases that - after some blinking and way too much mental effort - Spencer identifies as My Chemical Romance lyrics, and he can't help a noise that sounds a lot like "grrrargh!" before crawling under his covers fully dressed, texting back 'o fuck off ry' and falling fast asleep.

He dreams of wide open blue sky, somewhere like the grand canyon - where he's been with his family on more than one occasion, and while it's always really cool to look at and all, there's just not that much to actually do there, unless you're into hiking and all that kind of thing - except the rock faces above him don't stretch nearly so high, and he's sure it's never been that cold in Arizona or Nevada. Also, he realises before he wakes up gasping, tense with a completely out-of-proportion flood of fear, the walls of the grand canyon don't _move_.

The third and fourth nights are more or less repeat performances of the second, and seriously, he's going to kill them, especially when Bob pricks his ears and straightens up from his slouch against an alley wall to say "hey, did you hear something? Like- I dunno, someone giggling?"

They've expanded their circuit to take in a bit more of the city now, going after some of the older and wiser vamps, and besides, it's not exactly as if there are guys rising every night - the vamps don't, apparently, actually turn all that many people. When Spencer stops to think about it - in uncomfortable, memories-of-charts-of-the food-chain type ways - it makes sense, even.

Spencer is pretty sure he recognises that giggle, but he can't exactly say that to Bob so he just mumbles something and then seizes the distraction of a - not a vamp, he doesn't think, but definitely something with big fucking teeth that needs staking - trying to sink said teeth into a homeless guy, and the subject drops.

That incident seems to get Bob all the more fired up with his actual Watcherly-type duties - they'd actually taken a break for Spencer to admire Bob's own kit up close and personal the afternoon before. It was set up in the second bedroom, a tight professional looking kit, clearly well-used and cared for. Spencer tried not to drool too much.

"How do you manage to practice?" he had asked, thinking of just how close the neighboring apartments were and wincing a little at the thought of how much his neighbors complained when he practiced at home, and that was from a sort-of insulated garage, in a standalone house.

Bob had just grinned smugly and said, "Soundproofed the hell out of this place first thing on getting here. Make friends with your local witches, Smith, the good ones are worth their weight in gold."

Spencer had just stared. "You have a _magic_ drumkit?"

Bob laughed- actually, no, Bob _giggled_, it just didn't seem like the sort of word you wanted to admit out loud you'd applied to him, because Bob always looked like he was two steps away from being able to totally school your ass if necessary - and corrected "No, magic room. I'll give you Greta's number later, if you want to try the same thing with your guys. They don't work cheap, though, mind."

Spencer almost wants to ask if they charge in things like 'the scent of your favorite memory' or if they take debit cards. He's pretty sure Bob would make fun of him if he did, though. Bob is almost as good at making fun of him as Ryan is, which is- impressive, actually.

But the next afternoon, it's right back to full-on sparring - staffs, and then light, thin-bladed swords, and yeah, Spencer has to kind of pinch himself occasionally because he feels like he's stuck in some kind of montage scene, but it's as if all he's really doing is reminding himself how this kind of stuff works, rebuilding muscle memory that has gone faint and reedy. Bob is breathing heavily by the time he manages to knock the rapier out of Spencer's hand, signalling a move to hand-to-hand and the end of the physical training session.

Spencer is stronger than Bob, and a little quicker, but he was still working on the 'wilier', and so it would've been a pretty even bet as to who is more surprised when Spencer manages to actually throw him, knocking him hard into the pile of mats and using his bodyweight to pin him for a breath.

"Nice," Bob gets out, squirming to get one hand free so he can brush sweat-damp hair out of his face, and Spencer freezes up for a second thinking, 'wow, blue' and then realises he's _staring at his Watcher's eyes_ and scrambles to his feet. Bob doesn't appear to notice anything amiss, so he figures he's actually managed to not look quite so ridiculous as he had thought for a change.

They've spent their warm up going over the non-human races that might also be around in addition to vampires. Bob listed off djinns, naiads, gnomes, fairies (both Tinkerbell-sized and human-sized; apparently they really got around, and got a kick out of hiding in plain sight, and there were a bunch of them working at Disney World. Spencer very carefully adds that to the mental list of things to never, ever tell anyone, especially Brendon), gargoyles, demons - and that just goes into a whole sidetrack about how many different kinds of demons there are ("No one actually knows," Bob had said, way too cheerfully for Spencer's peace of mind, "They just keep on, I dunno, turning up. Fire will kill most things a stake won't, though."

So Spencer starts carrying a lighter as well, and cops lectures on why smoking is bad for him and if he 'does it in the house, so help me god, Spencer James Smith, you will be in Trouble' from his mother when she finds it in the pocket of his jeans in the laundry basket).

As Spencer stretches carefully to cool down, Bob drops right back into lecture mode, picking up the thread where they've left it, pulling a book down from the shelf to illustrate just what the demon they'd found the night before trying to snack on the guy behind Dunkin' Donuts had been. Mostly what it had been was really gooey and apparently never coming out of Spencer's shirt, but he was getting used to that. As well as a free pass out of school he's starting to wish this slaying gig came with a clothing allowance.

"And there's elves, too," Bob starts, and sees the look on Spencer's face in time to add smartly, "and none of them look like Orlando Bloom, either, but you won't see many of them over here, they're a bit too attached to the Old World; England and bits of Europe."

"Wait," Spencer asks, mock-dramatically, "you mean to say I get to travel on this gig, too?"

Bob just snorts and waves him out the door with a "Go get dinner, and I'll see you tonight, smartass."

* * *

It's a Friday, so Spencer doesn't actually have to sneak out, just waves goodbye to his dad on his way out the door without more explanation than "I'm going out, I'll call if I'm late."

He and Bob work their way around the usual hunting grounds pretty fast, surprising one vamp behind one of the dive bars closer to Vegas proper, and then heading back out to Woodlawn, because Bob has been scoping the papers that evening and thinks some of the newly deceased sound, quote, 'interesting'.

Turns out there was a whole group of burials earlier that day, some big road accident, "with fangs?" Spencer asks from the cover of the trees, spinning a stake around his knuckles absently.

Bob jerks his head to point at the dirt being disturbed again over one of the fresh graves, "Signs point to yes."

If Spencer had been running a tally for the evening, it would've gone something like this:  
Vampires spotted, three; vampires staked, three; vampires who felt some ridiculous need to grandstand with arcane threats about how Spencer was going to die, like, so, so horribly and the doom which was going to come down upon him and the entire human race, etc etc etc, thankfully only one, but Spencer's pretty sure he's in far more danger of hurting himself with how much he's rolling his eyes than he is of actually getting bit, and then he wonders if he's somehow getting complacent after not even a week on the job.

And that's when the fourth vampire comes out of nowhere and sends him flying, hissing viciously inches away from his face, and it would've got him dead to rights, surprise doing half the job for it, if Bob hadn't tackled it off him, sending all three of them tumbling across the mud and grass.

The vampire takes one look at the both of them and clearly decides that discretion is the better part of continuing to feast on tasty human necks, darting towards the chainlink fence surrounding the cemetery with superhuman speed.

Spencer rolls to his feet, groaning, because ow, he'd totally landed his knee on a rock or something, and takes a deep breath, preparatory to chasing the vamp down.

"Nah," Bob says, moving quickly in the exact opposite direction, "we're not going to catch it now, if we head back to the car we might be able to get close enough before it hits more populated-" but Spencer is staring horrified in the direction the vampire has run, a nagging memory of seeing something move, earlier, something that didn't feel like a threat, but instead-

He swallows down a choked, panicking whimper, sprinting at top speed towards the stand of brush on the boundary, pulse pounding double-time in his ears, oh god, what if he's not fast enough?

He crashes through the bushes with absolutely no regard for stealth, momentum carrying him right into the back of the vampire, which is looming over a prone Ryan. Adrenaline spikes so hard that he can't even hear himself yelling at first, and he seizes the vamp's shoulder, pulling it around to face him, and Ryan's kicking madly, pushing himself backwards and away, scrambling to his feet, and Spencer pulls back his arm, stake smooth and balanced in his hand to dust the vamp, and then Brendon is screaming "Spencer, watch out!" and he drops flat, just as a giant fucking stone club sweeps through the air where his head had been.

Great. So the vampire has _friends_.

Spencer whirls to face the thing behind him, and nearly actually falls as he finds himself looking up, at something huge and ugly that looks like nothing so much as the ogre from Jack and the Beanstalk, except maybe a little shorter and definitely less friendly looking.

A quick glance behind him shows that Ryan is standing, and Brendon's pulled himself out of whatever bush he got shoved into, leaves still caught in his hair, and they're circling the vamp, not letting it get too close to either one of them, and they both have stakes at least - Spencer had insisted, even if they're not so sure how to use them - so he can probably leave them for a second- Spencer ducks the club again, seriously, how the hell does something that big get to be so fast?

"Ha!" Ryan crows behind him, and Spencer dares another look to see that, somehow, Brendon and Ryan have managed to actually dust the vamp between them, and he has time to feel a faint glow of pride in them - under the burning fury that they put themselves in danger like that - and that's when the club gets him a glancing blow on the shoulder which should probably have broken it, but apparently he gets super healing, or at least, much less fragile bones, along with the extra strength and agility. You take what you can get, Spencer thinks, jumping back and trying not to move his left arm too much, wondering frantically how the hell they can get out of this mess.

"Spencer, what the- son of a bitch," Bob says, way too calmly behind him, and then he's reaching back over his shoulder and pulling one of the swords out from the back of his jacket, holding it in an easy stance, sliding up to stand beside Spencer and not taking his eyes off the ogre-thing for a second as he asks quietly, "You all right?"

"Arm's a bit numb," Spencer answers at the same volume, "but I think I'm okay. Um. What do we do now?"

Bob rushes forward at that, swinging the sword in a smooth stroke which knocks into the club with a bell-like chime, instantly reversing the swing to shift the blade away and then up, and in, and the ogre is disarmed and in, well, pieces before Spencer can do anything to help.

"Poor stupid thing," Bob says quietly, looking down at it, and it's somehow about a hundred times more disturbing than the vampires are, or that one actual-demon was, because this doesn't dissolve into dust or melt into, well, goo, it's just- dead. "And this is not good," Bob goes on to say, kneeling to wipe the sword off in the grass - the ogre's blood is pale pinkish, not red or black-brown in the moonlight like Spencer's used to seeing.

"What do you mean?" Spencer asks, voice still a little hushed, unwilling to break the unnatural stillness.

"Ogres in people-places mean that someone's been messing with things they shouldn't," Bob says, still staring at the body. "I mean, sure, they're violent and scary when you drop them in the middle of a city, surrounded by people and noise and cold iron - out in the Back Beyond or in the middle of the woods, different story. They're like- it's like stirring up a bees nest. You'll get stung half to death, and they'll kill themselves doing it, but neither of you really meant for it to happen. Nature sucks, Smith. And this guy shouldn't have got this far into a city without someone hearing about it, which means something's going on that shouldn't be. And, more importantly," his glare sharpens, and he shifts his weight on the balls of his feet, glare split evenly between Brendon and Ryan, who both look a little the worse for wear, speckled with dirt and leaf mould. Ryan is somehow almost entirely clean despite his fall, his hair mussed and scarf askew. And of course, trust Ryan to be wearing a silk scarf and narrow pinstriped trousers to a graveyard to hunt _vampires_.

"More importantly," Bob repeats, quiet and fucking _scary_, "who are you, and why are you doing your best to get Spencer killed by distracting him? And," his glare shifts to take in Spencer, who was well aware that he looked guilty guilty guilty, "why do they seem to know you're the Slayer?"

Spencer lifts his chin, straightening up a little, wincing as the motion pulls at his shoulder again. "Bob, this is Ryan," he gestured, "and Brendon. They're my best friends, and, uh, my band as well, actually. And they kind of- I asked Brendon for a ride the first night we met out at Forestville. And they sort of followed me and saw everything."

"And we want to help," Brendon adds stubbornly, despite the fact that he's kind of shaking a little with reaction, inching closer to Ryan as they stand there, neither of them backing down at all.

Bob sighs, looking at the two of them for another long moment. "I guess we should talk about this, then. Especially since the whole 'secret identity'," the glare is back again, and Spencer shrinks just a little, "ship has well and fucking truly sailed. Come on, it's getting chilly and you guys could probably do with something to recharge on." He seems to have come to some kind of decision.

"We can meet at the all night coffee place by Spencer's house, okay? We can get a bit of privacy there, and something warm to drink, and you all get to be reasonably sure I'm not going to actually kill you all and hide the bodies." His look says if he wanted to, he could totally do it, but the glare has sort of lost its edge a bit by now. Mostly Bob just looks like he's thinking hard, and he keeps sneaking little glances at Ryan, Ryan who's actually paying more attention to Brendon, now, shoulders bumping, quirking his eyebrow up in a silent 'sure you're okay?' type gesture, and almost reaching out to touch a vivid scratch along the line of his jaw before seeming to remember where they are and breaking off the gesture. Brendon's looking back just as intently, and Spencer can kind of feel a timer in the back of his head start ticking down.

"Okay," Ryan says finally, shooting one last look at Brendon and then having a silent eyebrow conversation with Spencer in turn. ("Can we trust this guy?" "Yes!" "Are you sure?" "Jesus, Ryan, he just saved all our lives, and also, yes!")

"We'll meet you there." They turn to walk back towards the street where Brendon's car is, and Spencer moves to follow them, but Bob clears his throat and says "Nuh-uh, Spencer, you're coming with me."

He gives a 'what-can-you-do' sort of shrug to Ryan and Brendon, both of whom are back to looking a little suspicious, and follows Bob back to his car. Either he's going to get the lecture to end all lectures of all time, or Bob actually is going to kill him and hide the body... but given how much Bob's bitched about training, he thinks that would lead to even more work than Bob would like, so he's got to be pretty safe.

* * *

They drive a block and a half in silence before Bob speaks, twisting the dial of the radio down so that it cuts from faint background noise to so low Spencer can't even make out a beat. "Uh, your friend, Ryan, is he-?" and Bob looks so awkward, and it's absolutely the last thing Spencer would have ever even expected him to ask, and he bristles automatically.

"Is he what?"

Bob snorts a little, "Cool down, Smith, I just wondered if he was- he looks pretty fey, you know?"

Spencer does not calm down. Spencer maybe just barely doesn't yell.

"I really don't think that's any of your business," he starts stiffly, and Bob looks illuminated for a second, and then amused, the bastard, and then actually, genuinely _laughs_, holding up his hand in surrender, stopping Spencer mid-rant.

"Spencer. I didn't mean 'is he queer', I know you haven't known me that long, but I'm not that kind of asshole. I meant fey like 'from under a fairy hill', not- jeez, Spencer, _I_ like dick, I'm not exactly going to be able to hold who they want to sleep with against anyone else!"

Spencer blushes a little and says, still a little stiff, "As far as I know - and he is older than me - Ryan's got a perfectly normal human mom and dad, no wings, no fairy dust," but his brain is just running itself around in tiny crazed little circles, repeating "Holy shit, Bob likes guys, Bob likes _guys_," and he hopes like hell none of that is visible on his face.

"Good to know," Bob replies easily, and they lapse back into silence the entire rest of the way, Spencer doing his best not to shift in the seat at all, because the belt is putting entirely unwelcome pressure on his sore shoulder, and he wants more than anything just to go home and go to bed.

* * *

Their little pow-wow at the coffee shop isn't quite as awkward as Spencer's expecting it to be. Maybe it's because they're all tired and mostly a little knocked around - he even catches Bob rubbing at his wrist as if he strained it a little, in that last vicious lunge - or maybe it's something to do with the guy running the counter, who just barely doesn't laugh at them as they pile in the door, clearly all jonesing for some form of caffeine.

"Tough night?" he asks conversationally, clear brown eyes meeting Spencer's, and it sends a little jolt through the bottom of his stomach, in a way that he can't quite identify. It's not lust, not quite, although the guy is definitely hot, a little scruffy looking but more than likely the type who has to beat them off with sticks, but there's something there. Spencer just lets himself smile back and says noncommitally, "Yeah, you could maybe say that," and then Ryan's ordering his own coffee, shouldering in front of Brendon who's looking thoughtfully at the homemade cookies ("The pecan ones are the best," the barista guy says, up on his toes and leaning over the counter to smile at Brendon, and okay, wow, that's definitely flirting, and Spencer has got to work on his gaydar, because either the slayer super powers are interfering or he just plain doesn't have it).

The four of them take a table well in the back, out of earshot of any of the other customers at this time of the night - morning, really - and exchange awkward looks. Spencer catches himself tapping his fingers nervously on the side of his cup and forces them to still, looking up at Bob. He's surprised anew at the feeling that he can actually get a read on Bob, on what he's thinking. It seems unreal that it's been less than a week since he found out about all of this, but it's been a very intense week, and that has to count for something.

Bob looks a little unsure, and it brings home again in a rush to Spencer that, okay, Watcher, sure, but Bob's not all that much older than them, and he's apparently been doing this his whole life? Spencer can't imagine that. He can't imagine doing this without Ryan and Brendon knowing, maybe telling Brent one day, even though he would in fact definitely prefer that they not _help_.

"You really can't help," Bob starts, echoing Spencer's thought.

Ryan looks mulish, and Spencer kind of sinks a little in his seat, because he knows that look, and he really doesn't want a ringside seat for the Ryan-Bob grudge match argument that it presages, and not just because he's honestly not sure who would win.

"You wouldn't have even known the ogre was around if it hadn't been for us," Brendon volunteers and while that's strictly true, it's also not the smartest tactic to run with, and Bob predictably splutters.

"We can help," Ryan reiterates, calm and steady. "If you tell us what to do, we'll learn, and Spencer said you need to, like, research stuff sometimes, we can do that too. I get good grades and I'm good with the net."

Bob just rolls his eyes and says "Yeah, Ryan, I can use google too," but Ryan's answering glare is only about a tenth part as scary as it usually is, which Spencer figures means they're warming up to each other.

The discussion gets a little bit circular, and probably a lot more overt than is good in public, but anyone who did overhear would just think they were talking about tv or a movie or- and Spencer looks at his companions and hides a rapid grin to himself - Dungeons and Dragons or the like. Bob doesn't really back down on the idea of Brendon and Ryan out on patrol ("safety in numbers is not just for stranger danger, Bob," Brendon says, trying his wide-eyed innocent look on him, and it actually almost works for a second, but Bob is a hardass and just flicks a sugar packet across the table at him instead), but he does, grudgingly, admit that they could use some help with other stuff.

Spencer just lets them argue themselves out, only interjecting from time to time when it looks like he needs to, and he spins his coffee cup in tiny circles inside his cupped hands, and only looks up to catch the sideways looks the barista is shooting them four or five - or maybe six - times. He can't quite tell if it's Ryan or Brendon the guy is watching.

Brendon's only holding his head up by virtue of the fact his chin is resting on his hand, and Spencer feels almost as wrecked himself by the time they call it a night and make for their respective homes. Bob waves him towards Brendon's van, this time, and Spencer says 'Night' quietly and tips into the backseat, glad that he lives close, that it's Saturday morning and he can sleep in.

Brendon and Ryan are quiet in the front seats, but they both get out to hug him quickly when Brendon drops him at the gate, before he makes his way up to his room and sweet unbroken sleep.

* * *

Ryan is kind of struck dumb, after Spencer closes the door behind him and he and Brendon get back into the van. He's not entirely sure what to say, or how to say it, not without Spencer's calming (inhibiting) presence in the back seat.

Brendon's eyes are huge and too-dark in his face when he pulls up out front of Ryan's place, and everything he's not saying - that neither of them is saying - is right there in his expression, even as tired and slightly shocky as he is.

It would take a tougher guy than Ryan to turn away from that. To turn that down, and he probably should anyway, but god, he doesn't want to.

"Don't do that again, hey," Brendon says, a little rough still, the ghost of the look that he'd been wearing when he'd hauled Ryan to his feet back in the graveyard still lingering.

Ryan shifts uneasily in the seat, can't bring himself to break eye contact, but he ducks his head at an angle all the same, feeling the pull of muscles, bruises sparking along his side from where he'd hit the ground hard. "I'll do my best," he says, and "Same to you, Brendon, right?"

He'd been so scared for a second himself, that Brendon was going to do something- something brave and _stupid_, and he didn't think he'd ever been more grateful to see Spencer in his life. Even if the rush of adrenaline had left him feeling like he'd been wrung-out to dry, and appallingly incapable of quelling the resulting urge to kind of cling to Brendon as much as he wanted to. He had a feeling that even if he'd ever been hiding the tiny hopes he had in that direction, they weren't anything like secret now. The only question was whether or not Brendon had noticed.

Ryan manages to collect himself sufficiently to realise he's been quiet a little too long, and also that he's kind of staring at Brendon's mouth, and apparently subtlety is vastly, entirely overrated after all, because Brendon sets his face in what Ryan has come to know as his 'fiercely determined' look, turns in his seat so he's facing Ryan properly, swears very quietly as he manages to knock his knee into the side of the dash in the process and says, very carefully, "I will if you will."

Ryan doesn't think they're talking about nearly getting eaten by vampires anymore.

"Brendon, are you sure- are we?" Ryan asks, and he hates sounding so unsure, hates it so much, but this is Brendon and it's so important, and the thought of getting this wrong makes him feel sick and uncertain in his stomach, like it would mess up something he needs to stay upright, stay functional. He's maybe a little dependent, fine, whatever.

"Yeah," Brendon breathes, and it's so determined, and Ryan maybe falls a little in love with him all over again at the set expression on his face, the way he bites his lip just a little (teeth dimpling the soft skin, flash of white under the flickering lamp of the streetlight), and then leans in to Ryan, giving him every opportunity to shift away.

Ryan thinks about staring up at teeth in the moonlight, at the cool recollection of not-gonna-make-it, about watching Brendon through his lashes, through the months and years, through veils of self-preservation and what-if fears. Ryan thinks about Brendon's shoulder warm against his in the coffee shop, about Brendon's voice and hands and steady presence.

Ryan leans in.

* * *

Brendon isn't entirely sure how he got to the point of sitting in his car and making out with Ryan Ross, an hour or so after they nearly got eaten by monsters, but aside from, well, the whole monsters part of the deal, he's really not complaining.

His back is going to kill him later for the way in which he's twisted it to actually get his hands on Ryan, but it is so, so worth it. Ryan's breathing warm and too-fast into his mouth, lips sliding against his, and he's got his hands cupping Brendon's face, and it's just so good. It's not like Brendon hasn't made out with people before, because he totally has, and he's maybe even good at it now, but this is Ryan, and that's Ryan's _tongue_, in his _mouth_, and honestly he's not really sure what to do at this point.

Kissing more seems like the best plan.

Something like five minutes or maybe an hour pass, and Brendon is still totally on board with the kissing plan, except apparently his body isn't entirely listening, because he's a little shaky and a lot turned on and- yawning.

Ryan just laughs at him a little, and then ducks his head into Brendon's shoulder.

"I'll try not to take that personally," he says, deadpan as always, but Brendon can practically feel his smile.

"Long day," Brendon says, and Ryan says "mmm" into his neck and another little shudder runs down Brendon's spine at that, the buzz transmuting through skin and bone into a little flicker-flash of heat. Except for all that, it is, like, oh-god-o-clock in the morning, and he really does want to go home and get some sleep, and Ryan probably feels the same.

"I'd ask you to stay," Ryan says, still not-quite looking at Brendon, "but," and then he shrugs, and Brendon says "hey, hey, I understand," because he does, and then he has to tip Ryan's chin up so he can kiss him again, just once for luck and then again for sweet dreams.

"So we're doing this now," Brendon says, as Ryan slides out of the car and turns back to look at him before closing the door careful-quiet, and "Yeah," Ryan says, equally quiet, but his smile could light up the city.

* * *


	3. How the West Was Won

* * *

Life pretty much goes on as normal for the weeks after that, if normal could be applied to things like a plague of leprechauns (Spencer was never, ever laughing at St Patrick's Day ever again), or like spending half the night wandering streets in the not-that-bad parts of town ("Vampires aren't so hot on semi-legal guns either, they might not die right away but it still has to hurt like shit," Bob had explained, when Spencer asked why they didn't really get into the worse areas, not that he was complaining), or around the graveyards and those local makeout points that weren't, like, well-lit and filled with tourists.

Spencer has a new-found appreciation for just how much of a social life he hasn't had for the past two-and-a-half years of high school because it seems like they run across people he kind of knows, or Ryan knows, or even Brendon knows, pretty damn often, and since usually they're chasing something (or being chased by something - but that was usually a lot more stressful and involved a lot more swearing and bleeding and worrying about bystanders), that's no fun at all. Plus, Spencer - since he's usually the one carrying a stick around Las Vegas at three in the morning, or sweaty and wearing torn jeans (he's so serious about the clothing allowance, Bob needs to stop laughing at him already) and covered in god only knows what - is kind of starting to get a reputation, and it isn't the 'plays in this really cool band, we should go see them play this weekend' one he's been hoping for.

The third time he falls into trouble around the back of the coffee shop - which by virtue of its 24-hour opening and the fact there isn't a Denny's for, like, a good six or seven miles tended to be kind of a default hang-out for the local high school kids, Spencer is flying solo. The other two aren't with him - they don't always come, and Bob has pretty much given up on trying to stop them anyway, but Spencer has a sneaking suspicion they're doing dating-type things that he probably doesn't want to know about anyway - and Bob has just made noises about going into town to meet someone, so it's just Spencer. Just Spencer and one really pissed off ex-wrestler (he's pretty sure, anyway, no one trips and falls on enough steroids to get muscles like that even if they aren't undead), who - luckily - gets a whole lot more 'ex' before he manages to break Spencer's arm.

It had been a pretty close call, though, and Spencer just picks himself up from the alley behind the store, sort of resignedly straightening up the trash cans - the vamp had gone flying into them and knocked them over, and wow, nothing from a coffee shop should smell that bad, and walks around the corner to get back to the main street, at which point he basically goes face-first into the cute barista guy.

Spencer maybe squawks a little, but it's just shock. It's barely after midnight, but he hadn't really been expecting anyone to be standing right there.

"Sorry, sorry," the guy says, grabbing at Spencer's shoulders to steady him, an easy grin playing across his face, "Didn't hear you there."

Spencer frowns a little, but can't help smiling, a 'hey, don't worry, we're all fine here, how are you?' type of smile, except totally sincere all the same, because the guy's smile, seriously. _Seriously_.

"I'm good," he says lamely, hoping there aren't, like, bits of vampire clinging to his shirt or anything. He still hasn't got much better at coming up with spur-of-the-moment cover stories. For all that Ryan writes what lyrics their band has, Brendon is actually the one who shines in that arena, Brendon is actually ridiculously fucking charming - as his friend, Spencer figures he's mostly immune - and way, way too good at talking people into letting them do things they shouldn't. Like, following suspicious-looking people into cinemas after closing, or getting them out of having the cops called on them for being a little too interested in a vacant warehouse (Nest of hydras. Spencer kind of wonders if this is the universe's crummy idea of revenge for that brief period of time he was maybe a little obsessed with Hercules and Xena reruns.)

"Whatcha doing back there, anyway?" the guy asks, and Spencer still kind of has, oh, _nothing_, but it's okay, because he's still talking anyway. "I see you and your friends kind of a lot, actually, right? I'm Jon." He lets go of Spencer's shoulders and holds out a hand to shake, which Spencer does, a little dumbly.

"Nice to meet you, um. Properly, you know," he says, and hopes it doesn't sound quite as stupid as it could do. Maybe it doesn't, even, because Jon just smiles at him again and jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

"We're still open," he says, "and you look like a guy who could use a pick-me-up. Latte, right?" and Spencer just follows him in - because, hey, it's getting a little colder at night, and he was more or less done, and... okay, he's a little bored and a little lonely. So, hanging out with the coffee guy. There are definitely a lot of depths below this to which he could still sink.

And Spencer had to chase a guy through the actual sewers the other week, so he should know.

And it had been an actual guy, too, not supernatural in any way, just a vile waste of humanity who he and Bob had dumped at the police station later on, because apparently Bob has 'channels' for these things, though he also hadn't looked very upset when Spencer's foot had slipped a few times to kick the guy in some sensitive areas. Spencer was nominally in favour of law and order and those kinds of good things, but he was also in favor of justice, and if his was the sneaker that dealt some of it out, well so be it.

But it turns out Jon is actually a pretty cool guy to talk to. He's maybe a little older than Spencer, and he doesn't talk about school or college, so Spencer doesn't ask, just talks music and a little bit of film, innocuous and pleasant. He's also kind of obsessed with the OC, and takes the mocking with good grace that Spencer dishes out without having stopped to wonder if it was too soon to do something like that. He just mocks Spencer's hair right back at him, and when Spencer excuses himself because it is kind of way past his bedtime, it's with a little bit more of a sense of accomplishment than usual.

He finds himself - along with the others - hanging out there, more and more, until it becomes almost their default base. If they're not at Bob's, they're at the coffee shop, laying claim to their own little corner, and harassing Jon whenever he's on shift.

Ryan and Brendon are both a little funny around him, which Spencer doesn't understand, because Jon Walker is pure unadulterated awesome, and they both seem to like him; they talk and laugh and Brendon musses up his hair and Ryan makes fun of his beard, but there's something just a little off about it all to him. He would think it was maybe jealousy or something like that, Ryan noticing Jon flirt with Brendon and not liking it, except then Spencer catches Jon flirting a little with _Ryan_, too, and vows to just keep his nose out of it. He has enough on his plate as it is.

* * *

Of course, other times Ryan and Brendon do tag along on patrol, and while Spencer can't argue that they do help, sometimes they- really kind of don't. Brendon in particular has this amazing affinity for sticking his neck right into the wrong place at the wrong time, and Spencer's actually lost count of the times he's nearly been dinner for some bad guy or another. "But you always save me, Spencer Smith," Brendon says cheerfully, "and you can't deny I can always find the bad guys, right?"

He can't, but sometimes he wishes Brendon wasn't quite so good at finding them by ending up on the pointy ends of their teeth.

* * *

Despite his best efforts, Spencer's been missing more band practices than he likes. Not just from when the homework that he barely sandwiches in between training and meals gets on top of him and he has to sit at home and focus on that unless he wants his parents to withdraw any privileges - which include his phone, his friends and his drums - but because sometimes he's busy with Bob, and other times, well. He's just not entirely in any shape to play.

He's pretty good about keeping his hands protected, but when your primary defensive weaponry is a little piece of wood, there are occasional splinters to worry about, and it also means that arms and wrists are the first things an angry vamp is going to try to latch onto to save themselves. Spencer heals fast, and he doesn't bruise very easily, but he and Bob nearly get their asses handed to them one night by a pack of out-of-town vampires, and while they manage to run them off in the end - staking all but one - it's a lot closer than either of them is really comfortable with, and Spencer had managed to sprain his wrist badly when he got thrown off balance mid-lunge. He tries really, really hard not to enjoy Bob's field first aid - a tight wrap and the recommendation he wear a brace for a few days - too much, but Bob's big hands moving lightly over his wrist and forearm, index finger rubbing idly at the thumping pulse in his wrist... Spencer, admittedly, gets a fair bit of mileage out of even that misfortune.

He calls Brent first - he'd had Bob text Ryan after dropping Spencer home, it was just easier than trying to manipulate the keys himself, and so he figured that meant that Ryan and Brendon would both know not to expect him, but Brent had to know, too. It was harder than Spencer had expected to keep the secret, to not tell his parents why he was out so often, not to answer back that he was doing something far more important than hanging out at the mall or chasing girls when his sisters teased him, and it was hard to keep lying to Brent about why he wasn't around, and why he was kind of distracted when he was. He knew he couldn't let anyone else get involved with the slaying, it was bad enough with Ryan and Brendon acting as impromptu sidekicks, and the trouble they'd had when Brendon had taken a nasty blow to the head that had actually knocked him out briefly - they'd had to make up a story that Spencer just _knew_ the emergency room doctors hadn't believed, and Brent had just looked a little hurt and suspicious and then ultimately disinterested when Brendon was out of school and practice both for two days.

At the same time, it was almost easier not to tell Brent, to have there be at least one person who still thought Spencer was normal, if a little weird, and Brent was kind of withdrawing himself, spending time with his other friends, and when Spencer gets through to his mom, she says Brent's gone out with some of them that afternoon anyway, and would you like me to get him to call you, Spencer, honey?

"No, it's okay," he says, and flops carefully back onto his bed. He has a feeling the band practices are going to taper off even more now, if Brent's not interested anymore. Maybe they can have Brendon play bass for a while and pick up another guitarist or something. He wonders for a second if Bob plays anything else - Spencer isn't giving up his drums for anyone, even if that person is awesome and capable and smoking hot and technically better than him anyway. Or maybe Jon plays, he looks like the kind of guy who's floated around colleges with an acoustic guitar and an easy smile.

He mentally shelves the question for the minute - he can talk to Ry and Brendon about it later, anyway, they'll (almost certainly) have ideas themselves, and instead lets himself drift off into a half-doze, thinking that a nap might be worth being grumpy and a little stupid when his mom wakes him up for dinner.

* * *

"No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!"

Brendon poses, more super-model than super-hero, and crows from his vantage point on top of the brick wall by the entrance, hands on his hips and looking approvingly at Spencer.

"No, Brendon, more like, 'no one expects the little guy in a pink t-shirt and girls' jeans to actually kick some undead ass'."

"Shut up, Ry," Spencer says tiredly, slumped against the side of the wall by Brendon's feet, with he doesn't even want to know _what_ on his hands and staining the side of his shirt. "I totally have muscles. I am _ripped_."

He does too, Brendon has totally seen them and, like, taken advantage - it's not his fault he likes to be carried around sometimes, and Spencer is awesome at it - and Ryan, Ryan is just kind of jealous, but the important point, the one that Brendon can't really disagree with Ryan on, is that Spencer doesn't look like he has muscles. And that Spencer would be awesome at the Dead Parrot Sketch, too, but Spencer just tells him to stop spending so much time on youtube and doesn't play along, which is really unfair. And after all, Brendon just saved his- well, okay, Brendon just endangered his life, but whatever, details, they're all alive and the bad guys are dust, which in all of their books is something like the same thing.

* * *

Spencer hears something - kind of wet and squelchy, and what use are totally kick-ass super-senses if they can't actually identify whether that's a zombie lurching through the mud behind the really old tombstones lurching towards you, or if it's some other kind of demon that's, like, _oozing_ something, or if it's-

"Ryan! Oh my god, you are not sticking your tongue down Brendon's throat in the middle of a graveyard! Haven't you guys ever seen a single horror movie? The kids making out in the background are always the first ones to get eaten!"

And, really, Spencer so doesn't need to see his two best friends necking more or less constantly, and it's gross, and clearly unsafe, and he really and truly does not need to be trying to deal with this at the same time as he's trying to, oh, save the fucking world, or something. He has enough on his plate as it is. And it's not like Bob's going to write him a note to get out of his homework or anything, either. Speaking as one of the Youth of Today, Spencer is pretty clearly coming down on the side of "this sucks".

"Oh, come on, Spencer," Ryan says, and he doesn't even have the decency to take both his hands off Brendon already, and for god's sake, if Spencer wanted to watch people hook up there are half a dozen parties he could be at right now, stupid conscience demanding that he do the right thing. "I don't think you should be supporting that stereotypically negative societal view of perfectly natural teenage sexuality."

Spencer makes a face that he knows illustrates perfectly just how much he doesn't want to hear about Ryan's sexual behaviour, but Ryan is still talking anyway, "And besides, that's movies. This is real life."

Brendon thinks to himself that possibly Ryan should've led with that argument, but since he's sliding his fingers back into Brendon's belt loops and nuzzling at his neck again, well, he's not really paying that much attention to anything else anyway.

Spencer chokes audibly.

"Ryan, we're waiting in a _cemetery_, for _vampires_. I don't think you can discount that whole 'doesn't happen in real life' thing so fast any more. Besides, speaking as your best friend, there are things I do not need to know about you. Or about Brendon!"

Brendon snickers into Ryan's shoulder, because Spencer getting mad - when it doesn't involve things like stakes and imminent death - is kind of hilarious. And adorable. And if he times it right and says so, Spencer will, like, choke and splutter and then threaten Brendon's life and manhood, and in a way it's almost like they always have been. Just, you know, add vampires and making out with Ryan, stir on high. It would be totally wrong of Brendon to feel that creepy undead people trying to kill him and his friends were worth finally getting Ryan's attention, but he can't say he's not happy about that last bit, at least.

Of course, Spencer being Spencer he's totally seen Brendon snicker, and he's not going to take Ryan ignoring him lying down, because he's just standing there, hands on hips, waiting for Ryan to say something, and the habits of years and years being what they are, there's no way Ryan's not going to bite.

"I don't think that's very supportive of you, Spence."

"Oh, please, as if I would ever be that guy. Come on, Ryan, hello, pot, this is kettle, you couldn't be wearing more rainbow stickers if you'd fallen off the back of a gay pride march."

"I'm pretty sure that's a crime against metaphors, dude," and Spencer just growls inarticulately, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the mausoleum behind him. "Besides, you're just bitchy because you can't talk _someone_ into making out in cemeteries with you."

Brendon perks up a little more. "Spencer likes someone? Who?"

After a couple too many close calls by the coffee shop, and the bars that didn't exactly check ID too closely, and that one incident behind the gym, Spencer doesn't actually hang out that much with anyone who wasn't them anymore. Or Bob. Oh, hey, wait just a second--

"Spencer likes Bob?"

"Brendon, shut up!"

"Oh my god, that's so perfect. I bet he'd go for you, too. You could be all manly and- and slay-y together!"

Spencer has his head in his hands and Ryan is snickering mercilessly.

"Guys, seriously, shut the hell up. He's my Watcher. It would be totally wrong-"

"-and hot," Brendon adds helpfully, because, okay, Ryan is basically the prettiest boy in the world and Brendon isn't all that interested in straying (well, usually not, anyway. Stupid wandering eyes, and stupid Jon Walker who had to be- there, and awesome, like all the time), but now he was kind of imagining Bob and Spencer, and you would have to be dead to not be interested in that.

"It would be wrong," Spencer emphasises, and then slumps a little, "and it's not like he's interested anyway. I mean, come on, I'm seventeen, and he's, like, twenty five. I don't think he's the type to go perving over high school kids, Bren."

Brendon thinks back in light of this new information to a couple of sparring practices he's watched and wonders if Bob is actually that type and just hasn't realised it yet. Weirder things have definitely happened. Spencer just looks kind of depressed, and Brendon mentally upgrades it from "hopeless crush" to "kind of stupidly in love with him" and just feels sorry for him. Kind of stupidly in love with someone you didn't think was ever going to really notice you, let alone sweep you off your feet and try to have ridiculously hot makeouts against the kitchen wall - uh, not that Brendon was speaking from experience here or anything, and thank god Ryan's mom was never home - well. That kind of sucked a lot. Maybe he should talk to Bob.

He thinks about that a little bit more and- maybe he should just try and do something subtle and untraceable and not actually talk to Bob at all, because while Bob has sort of come around on the idea of Ryan and Brendon helping Spencer out in the field, and doing research and all that kind of thing, he's still kind of the scariest dude Brendon had ever met. Well, on the side of all that is Good and Awesome, anyway.

Of course, by this stage, by the Laws of Best Friendship, Spencer and Ryan have sidetracked into the kind of comfortable bickering they can keep up for hours - insults about each others' taste in clothing and personal hygiene, the occasional 'your mom' just to confirm they are, in fact, teenage boys after all, and some half hearted gesturing, and Brendon lets himself relax back against the side of the tombstone they'd been leaning on and tunes out for a bit. He isn't sure quite how Spencer has got the subject changed, and he really should've been paying attention, because getting Ryan to drop whatever topic he's got his teeth into would be an awesome survival type skill for Brendon to be able to develop and all, but it's probably one of those things you have to be, well, _Spencer_ to accomplish, and Brendon has his limits.

He hides a yawn behind his hand, and okay, they probably don't have much more time until someone important notices that the three of them are kind of sleeping through study hall all the time now, and some of their classes besides, this whole battling the undead thing really doesn't leave much time for quality shut-eye, and then frowns. He could've sworn he'd seen something move behind Spencer. In the shadowy undergrowth at the edges of the cemetery. His gut clenches and he tries to swallow, throat suddenly crazy dry.

"Guys?"

Ryan and Spencer are still arguing, and they seem to be on the topic of who had schooled who at Spencer's X-Box last time they'd played, which Brendon really, really thought was inappropriate cemetery stalking conversation, especially when- something moves again.

"Guys? Hey, guys, I think-" Brendon bites his lip, nearly choking on the words he's trying to get out, and jeez, this is just embarrassing, and why doesn't this happen to the heroes in Hollywood action movies ever, huh? Brendon is totally demanding his money back the next time they go to the theater.

And then something warm and furry hits Brendon's hip, hard, knocking him sideways and down, and it's like his vocal chords had taken that as a cue to start doing their job, because Brendon _yelps_ "hey, guys, I think that maybe it's _time for slaying something_," and Spencer is whirling, impossibly fast, reaching for the stake he had tucked into the pocket of his jeans (and that was something else that Spencer was lucky with; the stakes were, like, the same length and pretty much the same shape as his drumsticks, so his parents don't ever blink when he was tucking bits of wood into his pockets, and his jeans don't exactly need any special tailoring. Spencer Smith, walking vampire arsenal).

Brendon hits the ground with enough force to wind him for a second, and while he's half-expecting to follow that up with some gross dead thing doing its best to tear his throat out, his hands are scrabbling around in the thin grass for a stick, a rock, anything, and the second he can move, he curls his legs up under him, head down to try and protect, well, part of his neck. The only person who gets to chew on him is Ryan, damnit, and after the split-second shock of 'hey, not dead yet' has worn off, he manages to scramble to his feet and get his back to the wall. Whatever had hit him was gone, because it definitely can't have been the vampire that Spencer has cornered against the mausoleum and is dusting even as Brendon tried to catch his breath.

It can't have been the other two vamps he can see, either, one stalking towards him and the other circling Ryan, and lucky that they'd never gone through Bob's "How Not To Die" course or watched a decent martial arts movie ever, because if they'd ganged up on either him or Ryan they'd have been in serious trouble, but split like that, well, okay, maybe they can't necessarily do the dusting themselves, but they can definitely occupy them until Spencer can manage it. Brendon sees his vamp look back towards Ryan for a second and pause, licking its lips obscenely, and instinct takes over.

"Hey, fangface! Over here! Yeah, you heard me. I'm young and delicious, why don't you try and pick on someone your own size, huh?"

So, okay, it isn't the best battlecry ever, but it's not like the vamps are fielding Einstein or anything either.

Of course, now the vamp is moving towards Brendon a lot faster, and that's good for Ryan, but on reflection, Brendon isn't actually all that sure of how fast he can move.

He ducks behind another tombstone and keeps yelling stuff, and he isn't even all that sure of what he's saying, but it seems to be working, because he and the vamp are basically playing the scariest game of keep-away that Brendon could have ever imagined.

The stake in his hand feels far too small to be anything like useful, but when his back hits the boundary wall and there is, oh god, nowhere else to go, for sure, Brendon sets his teeth and lunges forward, because he has to try.

He isn't sure, later, if he or the vampire is more surprised when his strike actually connects, because there is a second where the vampire just looks shocked, and a little stupid, and says, "Well, shit," and then it's dust, and Brendon is- pretty awesome, actually, but also sitting down hard, because, wow. Not what he'd been expecting.

He scrambles to his feet just in time to see Spencer making for the vamp that had been coming after Ryan, and to see another two vamps materialising out of the gloom behind him, looking smug and deadly, and Brendon opens his mouth to yell again, because apparently adrenaline has loosened up his vocal cords at last, and then what looks like a big dog comes hurtling out of the bushes, the full weight of it sending one vampire tumbling even as it turns on the second, snarling and biting, teeth tearing at the vamp's leg, trying to get it on the ground.

Spencer takes a quick look over his shoulder, enough to take in the situation and figure that the threat can wait a second, and the other vamp is distracted as well, just long enough for Spencer to take him out, and then the one of the remaining vamps gets in a lucky shot, kicking hard at the big dog-wolf-_whatever_'s hind leg, and it makes a pained noise and lets go in shock.

The mostly uninjured vampire takes one look around at the group of them, and clearly decides that running away is the best chance it has of not getting staked already and takes off at top speed, abandoning its fellow to Spencer, who slips close in one fluid motion, dusting the vampire as it tries to get to its feet.

The three of them exchange glances, moving cautiously towards the- Brendon takes a better look, now that none of them aren't in danger of imminent death, and yeah, definitely a wolf. He's seen them at the zoo. Which begs the question of what it's doing in the middle of the city, and why it's helping them.

"Um, hi," Spencer says awkwardly, sort of crouching just out of lunging range from the wolf, and Brendon's eyes go wide because, oh, wow, he hadn't even put that together himself, but it was pretty obvious what Spencer thought was going on.

The wolf- werewolf, apparently -just kind of whines, and puts one paw over its muzzle in a distinctly human mannerism, because Brendon has sure as heck never seen any animal doing such a great impression of "wow, so this is embarrassing".

It gets up, moving carefully, not wanting to put much weight on the leg that the vamp had managed to hit, and walks with great dignity between Ryan and Brendon and behind the fir tree there. Another couple of seconds pass, with the three of them none too sure what to do next, and then a familiar voice calls out from behind the cover of the undergrowth.

"Hi, so, um, can I borrow someone's hoodie? Because my pants are all the way over by the car and I'm pretty sure there's poison ivy around here somewhere."

"Jon?" Spencer says, looking absolutely gobsmacked and frozen in place, "what the-" but then Brendon digs an elbow into his ribs, and so he skims out of his hoodie as fast as he can - because Brendon's wearing a tiny lavender hoodie which would probably cover, oh, nothing, and Ryan is kind of lanky and skinny and also wearing something that's more a vest than a sweater anyway, so Spencer's comfortable half-a-size-too-big zip-up is going to inevitably be the one sacrificed to the cause.

A tanned arm reaches out around the bole of the tree, and Spencer drops the hood into his hand, and then darts back to Ryan and Brendon, and so the three of them are standing together in a tight group when Jon shuffles out, barefoot and huddled in Spencer's hoodie which is- oh god, yeah, really not hiding much at all, the bare necessities, really, and oh, why does Brendon's brain have to break into Disney at a time like this? It's really not fair.

"Hi," he says again, looking kind of sheepish.

"You're a _werewolf_," Ryan says, which is stating the obvious in a way he doesn't usually go for at all. Shock, Brendon thinks wisely.

Spencer's just looking a little pale and like he's hoping this doesn't mean he has to slay Jon, too. They all like Jon.

"I- yeah," Jon says, "I've been kind of keeping an eye on you guys. Since I overheard you talking a few times. Just, you know. In case you needed help."

And Brendon remembers the very beginning of the fight, the way he'd gone down just in time to save him from the first vampire's attack, and says solemnly to Jon, "Thank you, Jon Walker, you totally saved my life there."

"Well, you guys had my back there, too, so fair's fair." He shakes himself a little, and it's an unnervingly canine - lupine? Brendon wonders, and figures that Animal Planet is going to start featuring more prominently in his life - expression, and then goes on to say, "But, seriously, can we talk about this at the car? It's kind of not warm, and that's really not all that flattering, you know?"

They're halfway back to the entrance where they are all, it appears, parked on the street, when Spencer speaks up again.

"I thought you had a cat," he says, sounding a little betrayed.

"I do," Jon assures him, "she's pretty cool so long as I don't, like, steal her food. The life of an hereditary werewolf is a strange one, Spencer Smith," and it's only now that Brendon notices his teeth are a little too big, still, and that's where he gets that tiny trace of a lisp. He thinks 'that's hot' for about a second, and then remembers Ryan and feels guilty, but when he looks over Ryan's still staring at Jon too, so he figures it can't be all bad.

* * *

Bob's only comment on the whole affair is a scathing, "Really, way to go with the secret identity, Smith," but he seems to accept Jon's presence in the group a lot faster than he did Brendon and Ryan's. Admittedly, Jon's own for-real supernatural powers and ability to not get killed all that easily probably help there, too. Plus, Bob really, really likes Jon's coffee and is not the sort of guy who'd cut off his nose to spite his face.

And besides all that, Bob's just all distracted the next afternoon. "Something's up," he says shortly, and Spencer presses just a little, and might, if under pain of torture, admit to whining too, and finds out that some of Bob's sources have been passing down murmurs about a disturbance in the force. Or, okay, some big bad guy deciding to set up shop in Vegas, but it's effectively the same thing.

("You realise we're all going to mock you so hard if your sources are, like, the tabloids they sell down at the corner, right?" Spencer had said, a couple weeks back, and Brendon had added "and his little doggie, too!" and then made faces and said "no, no, wait, he's totally, like, reading it in his coffee grounds. Or maybe that sludge in the back of the fridge, seriously, Bryar, what the hell is with that?"

Bob had just said "shut up, Brendon, you know that's actually food, right? Sometimes it doesn't come in bright colors and wrapped in plastic, although I realise this might be new information for you," and it's entirely possible that Bob has adjusted to them, like, a lot by this stage.)

"More details might be, I dunno, kind of helpful," Spencer says, swinging his feet on the stool in the kitchen and sucking down water gratefully. Bob has really been pushing him with training, and he gets the feeling he has been taking out a little bit of his own frustration with it, which Spencer is totally on board with-- and there he went with the completely inappropriate thoughts again, Jesus, his brain was so fired.

He kicks his feet against the cabinets behind him without really thinking, and Bob's grumpy glare tunes up a notch, and maybe it was the slightly-better-than-normal hearing or maybe it was wishful thinking, but Spencer could've sworn he growled, too.

He has to stop finding stuff like that hot. Maybe he needs different hobbies. Or, you know, a different _life_.

"Brian," Bob starts out carefully, and Spencer straightens up on the chair, because hey, this is more specifics than he's got out of Bob in weeks, "says that he's not sure what's coming, or exactly when, but that someone's been messing with the energy flows around this part of the state. And it looks big, bad, and old, and mostly earth-based."

"Earth-based like magic?" Spencer says, checking, because they've talked a little bit about the types of magic workers who were around, the different ways they focused, but since Bob's advice there mostly boiled down to "don't piss off a witch", and also "carry a lot of salt if you do", he figures he's maybe missing some of the salient points.

Bob makes a 'sorta-kinda' motion with his hand. "Earth-based like, earth-focused magic."

Spencer goes still for a second, thinking of his dream, the one that keeps coming back, every now and then and a little more often lately, and says around a suddenly dry throat, "Like, giant hole in the ground all of a sudden type earth-focused?"

"Maybe," he replies, and narrows his eyes. "Why?"

"Dreams," Spencer says succinctly, and when Bob raises an eyebrow in a 'why yes, that was informative' type expression, he just shrugs and hopes he doesn't look like a sulky teenager. "No, that's- that's kind of all it is. Sometimes it's all of us there, but mostly it's just me, me in this big canyon-type thing, and it's cold and scary," Spencer is totally awesome enough to admit to being scared sometimes, "and then I wake up."

He goes on to with what few other details he remembers - the times where there were dust devils everywhere - and not the little ones, either, these were more kind of like 'you're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy' type strength, whirling little rocks that stung his skin and seared his eyes. The two men screaming something in a foreign language that he saw just the one time, before one of them hit him hard, bore them both down to the ground, and as Spencer raised his arm to stake him, he saw all in one flash that the guy was actually a man, or had been, once, eyes thoroughly alive and chillingly cruel, and he remembered the shock as the stake parted flesh and ribs, and then a flash of pain that radiated from the back of his head and sent him tumbling into wakefulness.

He doesn't mention that the last time he had the dream he'd fallen, and when he got up he realised he was wearing a dress.

That's the kind of detail that, frankly, doesn't seem all that pertinent.

"I think the telling-the-future bit got kind of missed out with me, Bob," he says ruefully, as Bob listens, frowning.

"You make up for it in other ways," Bob says, and doesn't elaborate.

* * *

"You have freckles on your nose," Jon says seriously, looking up at Spencer, who just groans and leans down to haul Jon to his feet.

He's none too steady - the guy outside Jon's work had just been an ugly drunk with a bad temper, and he'd punched Jon to the ground before any of them even realised there was anything to react to, although he was not going to cause anyone else any problems that evening, because Spencer has a temper, too, and he doesn't like people hitting his friends.

Ryan and Brendon exchange looks, a silent argument over just who gets to play crutch, an argument that Jon solves inadvertently by stumbling a little, and as if they'd discussed it they both take an arm (Brendon takes an elbow, that's just _gentlemanly_, and Ryan just looks at him funny), and steady him.

Bob is laughing at Spencer, who is still caught somewhere between looking kind of pissed and a little confused.

"You do," Bob says, and Brendon watches with interest as Spencer tries to look like he's not hanging on every word as he frowns and says "what?"

"Have freckles on your nose," and Bob reaches out and taps Spencer's nose, smiling big, and Brendon holds his breath for a second because- wow.

Spencer just smiles sunnily at Bob and the two of them manhandle Jon into Bob's car (Brendon totally helps, Ryan just, like, commentates) to drive him home where he can hole up with an icepack and some VH1.

"D'you think the two of them are ever going to get their acts together?" Ryan asks, watching as the car vanishes around the corner, and reaching over to squeeze Brendon's hand quickly before letting go - they try not to get too PDA-y in their own neighbourhoods, at least, it's just a little too dangerous for them both.

"Hrm?" Brendon asks, because as adorable as the continuing epic love story of Bob and Spencer, Clueless Heroes is, he'd kind of slipped back to thinking about the stunned look on Jon's face, and the way his forehead had creased up a little when he'd stood up again. He kind of wanted to go make Jon soup or something.

Ryan bumped shoulders with him and started walking back to the lot where they'd left Brendon's van. "Spence and Bob. You think they realise how obvious they are?"

"No," Brendon says definitely, because as insightful as either of them is when it comes to other people, they've got a blind spot a mile wide when it comes to their own personal affairs. He has a feeling that Spencer, at least, doesn't tend to think of himself as being anywhere near as attractive to anyone as he is, and it wouldn't surprise him if Bob was a little the same way. Bob gets hit on by drunk people - men and women - whenever they're anywhere near the strip or the bars dotting the freeway, and he never looks anything other than vaguely amused and a little surprised.

"You think Jon's okay?" he says, after that, when the silence stretches a little too long. Ryan's hand moves, a jerky twitch as if he was going to reach out for Brendon and thought better of it, and he doesn't say anything for a second, and then it's a quiet, "I think so. But you want to go check on him, right, Brendon?"

And there's something in Ryan's voice, and as steady as the monotone is, Brendon prides himself on how he knows Ryan, listens to him, and his stomach sinks in sudden dread. "I guess, yeah. Do you- um, do you not want to?"

He would've thought Ryan would want to, Ryan's always in Jon's space, and the way Jon looks at Ryan- Brendon's not stupid, and he has a mirror.

"I thought you might want to be, like, alone. Or something." And Ryan is definitely sounding hurt, and Brendon feels suddenly frantic, because he doesn't know how to fix this.

"Ry," he starts, and then steps behind the van, where they're out of sight of the street, and wraps his arms around Ryan's middle, nose down in Ryan's stupid, adorable scarf.

"Hey," Ryan complains, and pokes his long skinny fingers at the back of Brendon's head, and at his shoulder, but when Brendon just makes a protesting noise and refuses to say anything else - he is cuddling, he is performing important boyfriendly cuddling _duties_, they can talk about this seriously later - he just sighs and goes limp against Brendon, fingers carding through his hair.

Brendon mumbles something pleased into the side of Ryan's neck and goes back to doing his best to leave Ryan enough of a lovebite that he's going to need the scarf.

So what if he maybe he kind of likes Jon, a lot? He likes Ryan just as much, and he _has_ Ryan, and Brendon's not letting go for anyone, even someone else he could maybe fall for and should, thereoretically, therefore want to be happy even if it's at the expense of his own happiness. Brendon wonders if he's maybe a little too selfish, but then Ryan leans back and nudges at him with hips and thighs and presses him up against the side of the van to kiss him properly, and Brendon just gets a little too distracted to worry about his morals and standards any more.

* * *

They think they've found a clue to Bob's so-called 'villain of the week' when they catch a couple of lackey-type vamps trying to steal something from out the back of the Natural History museum. Spencer does the rapid stake-and-shake-down, netting something that looks like a metal plaque and an old trowel. Ryan rubs a curious thumb over the plaque; his finger comes away dusty, and there's words underneath. Jon says it 'smells funny'. ("Scientific, Jon," Ryan says, but it sounds more fond than bitchy.) The words are in something that looks like Latin, so once they've established that there aren't any more lurking bad guys (and that the museum is still alarmed, and mostly locked up, and no, guys, we can't go have a closer look at the triceratops right now, it's probably made of polystyrene anyway, come on, focus), they head back to meet up with Bob.

Bob prods at the trowel with a cautious finger, and when it doesn't bite he puts it on the table where they can all stare at it in bemusement, and then he carefully rubs at the plaque with one of the cloths he keeps to clean his kit, frowning over the words.

"What does it _say_?" Brendon asks, totally losing the patience Olympics, and Bob looks- kind of shifty, actually.

"With- the something- having been created, with truth on its head, unbreakable when whole."

There's a beat of silence, and Ryan, who doesn't look much at all as if he wants to be the one to point this out, just traces condensation around the table top, drawing little circles as he says, "but that doesn't make any sense. Are you sure that's what it says?"

"Well, it could be something about manhoods and being juggled on their heads, but that seems a little unlikely, doesn't it? I don't know, I've never been great with dead languages." He gets up and growls again, definitely this time, because Brendon and Jon both jump and Ryan doesn't react so carefully that it's a reaction in and of itself, and then Ryan looks up at Spencer, stares hard for a second, and oh, yeah, Spencer is blushing a little. Fucking traitorous pale skin.

There's some more muffled cursing from the corner of the living room where Bob has his computer, and he's back a few minutes later, bitching about how he misses his old Mac, and then remembering himself, he goes on to say that the translation was pretty close, so, yeah, they maybe have a clue, but right now it's a big fat lot of nothing.

"So we go back to the museum and figure out what's missing and where it was from," Spencer puts together slowly, and Bob nods.

"Exactly. Good thinking, Spence," and actually smiles at him, and oh yeah. Doomed.

* * *

They're at the museum first thing when it opens the next morning, cutting school, all of them, although since Bob isn't actually meant to be working on a Tuesday it's probably not exactly cutting for him. At first they can't get near the exhibit which was "vandalized last night, alarm didn't even go off, damn kids or something" the security guy tells them, looking bored, so they waste some time looking at the sharks and sting-rays in the tank in the other wing, and Bob lurks in the gift shop and works out that the exhibit they can't get near is something about early mining in Nevada ("Well duh," Ryan says, library-quiet, "because there was that trowel, too").

The cops turn up, and Brendon, Ryan and Spencer all look suddenly very studious from where they had been leaning on the information boards about catclaws and big horn sheep, while Jon makes faces of the 'ha ha, I've already graduated' type at them, and Ryan even hauls out a notebook and pretends to be sketching something, although Spencer figures they'd probably just be taken for tourists anyway. There's about half an hour more of presumed activity, dusting for prints and all that kind of thing; they've all seen enough CSI to know that, and then the police clear out and the museum staff put tape over the broken glass, and the five of them wander over to the newly reopened area, not bothering to hide their noseyness. 'Hiding in plain sight', they'd figured before.

The exhibit doesn't hold any more obvious answers. According to the little index card sitting lonely in the front of the broken glass, the mining gear in the cabinet was all recovered from the remains of a claim site out by Mt Potosi, held by Jack and Thomas Warner back in the late 1850s, mining for lead and other minerals.

It is, as Spencer grumbles when they head for the car and coffee, and then back to their respective schools ("Do we have to?" "Yes." "Bob, you suck as a Watcher." "Shut up, at least you don't have to grade stuff." "You teach _band_, what do you have to grade?" "You don't even want to know, Ross."), kind of a total waste of time, aside from the excellent deadly sea creatures.

* * *


	4. How the West Was Won

* * *

For all that he claims to be a dog person, Spencer is the one who keeps bitching to Jon about how he wants to meet Dylan already, and so Jon ends up inviting all of them over to his apartment one afternoon, to just hang out. He makes some tempting noises about cookies and maybe pizza, which is, frankly, more than enough to sell them on the idea. Odds are good they'll end up talking 'shop', so to speak, and Ryan suspects that Brendon and Spencer are both just nosey little fuckers who want to snoop around a little, and Bob will probably just sit there and silently egg them on, because Jon still hasn't told them all that much about himself, and Bob's not the kind of guy who's going to be entirely happy about that. Bob's also not the kind of guy who takes it well when Jon pulls out his camera and takes candids of the lot of them; Ryan just thinks Bob's been imprinting on too many old spy movies and superhero comics.

Spencer teases him a little about it sometimes, but Ryan's always happy to pose for Jon, he doesn't mind being in front of a camera (which does not make him an attention whore, thank you very much, Spencer Smith), and he has to admit that, well. He likes the way he looks in Jon's eyes. In a way that's maybe not entirely appropriate, given Brendon. But he's seen the way Brendon looks at Jon, too, and Jon- Jon looks back, and Ryan's thoughts, lately, have been leaning more and more in a direction which makes him breathless and shaky, stomach twisting a little with fear. Because maybe he doesn't have to choose, maybe Brendon doesn't and Jon doesn't either. It's so- it's so ridiculous, and complex and he's a little worried that he's attracted to that complication, the huge potential disaster of it as much as he is to the actual details of the idea.

And then Brendon will snuggle into him with unabashed affection and hook his thumb under Ryan's jeans, or Jon will smile at him from across the table, and Ryan's throat will tighten and he'll have to bite his lip or do something to keep his hands occupied, because all he wants to do - all either of them make him want to do - is reach out and take. So the details it is.

Of course, that means at some point in time he's actually going to have to bring it up, because Brendon is probably not going to let himself think that anything else is a possibility, will just keep tying himself in knots over what he wants and what he thinks he can and can't have, and Jon is so infuriatingly zen at times that Ryan suspects he's just waiting for something to fall into his lap without his having to do much of anything about it.

Ryan has no theoretical objections to anything involving Jon Walker's lap whatsoever, except for that he thinks there's going to have to be some kind of moment to actually discuss the merits of his plan before it gets to that point.

Ryan and Brendon turn up at Jon's together, and Ryan lets Brendon drag him up the stairs, trying to drain off a little of Brendon's excess energy (because inevitably Jon is going to give them coffee, too, and frankly Ryan doesn't want to spend his afternoon scraping Brendon off the walls while Bob and Spencer provide commentary. He gets to do that often enough as it is).

They're a little early, and Jon is just tugging a shirt over his belly and rubbing a hand through damp hair as he answers the door, clearly fresh from a shower, and Ryan honestly can't establish if the wicked curl of _want_ that rushes through him is more for Jon's smile - bright and open and welcoming - or for the split-second visual he entertains of Jon in the shower, all naked and wet and- _naked_. Ryan is so, so glad that he can be certain none of this is showing on his face.

Brendon doesn't seem to notice - which Ryan knows is actually a total lie, Brendon always notices, he just doesn't always feel the need to comment, and in the couple of weeks since they've actually been dating-or-whatever, he's come to realize just how much more is going on inside Brendon's head. That faint reserve that he has isn't a bad thing at all, and it's not like Ryan would ever be able to criticize anyway.

Jon flicks his hair back out of his eyes and points with his chin at the battered couch in the living room, telling them to make themselves comfortable.

"Spencer and Bob not with you?" he asks, closing the door behind them and just waving Brendon through when he stops in the entryway and makes to untie his sneakers. "No, really, Brendon, it's fine," he goes on, as Brendon looks dubiously at the pile of flip-flops by the door and Jon's bare feet on the carpet.

"No," Ryan says, sinking into the couch, which makes a very determined effort to envelop him completely, "Spence texted me, they're probably gonna be a bit late. You know. Slay date."

Jon just raises an eyebrow and perches casually on the coffee table in front of them, crossing his legs at the ankle. "And are they...?" His voice trails off, inviting, and Ryan wonders for a second if he's misread Jon's intentions, if it's Spencer he-

"Are they dating?" Brendon repeats, tucking his feet up under himself so that his knee digs into Ryan's thigh, and for all he's a pretty tiny guy, it's warm and solid and entirely comforting. Ryan pets him a little, and tries not to think.

"Not yet," Brendon carries on, "because they're both too dumb to realise that they should be." He snorts a little, and Jon just grins easily. Jon is... really annoying, sometimes, Ryan thinks.

Ryan also privately thinks that 'dumb' doesn't quite come into it for Spencer and Bob, but he can't argue with the basics of what Brendon's saying. They're just cautious. He can more or less relate.

Jon's posture doesn't change at all, he's still looking between Ryan and Brendon with an easy smile on this face, and Ryan knows that Jon doesn't need to ask about them, because Jon (and, well, quite a few others) has seen them making out, more than once.

Instead, Jon just says, "Cool, I figured, you know, but I was wondering if it was just me."

"Nope," Brendon says easily, and then pats the couch beside him, inviting Jon to sit. Jon looks over at Ryan ever-so-briefly before he moves, and Ryan just tilts his head a little, permission that Jon reads right away, because he slouches down onto the couch and Ryan doesn't even have to look to know that he's tucked right in against Brendon. Ryan's sitting the same way himself.

Brendon, remarkably, manages to drape himself so he's more or less spread evenly over both Ryan and Jon's laps, and then makes a contented little noise into Jon's side where his face is all mushed. It really is kind of stupidly adorable, and Ryan knows he shouldn't feel as happy with this as he does. It's just too weird, maybe, even for them, and then Ryan reminds himself that his best friend slays vampires and one of the boys he kind of has a ridiculous crush on is a werewolf, and maybe there's room in his life for a little bit more weird after all.

Maybe all he has to do is open his mouth and just ask for it, for once.

"You're both my favorites," Brendon announces, muffled by the arm he has thrown over his mouth, because his shoulders are all over Jon and his bony ass is digging into Ryan's thigh, and seriously, if anyone else was to walk in right now, Ryan couldn't even blame them for what they'd have to think. But it's just Brendon, just _them_, and maybe this isn't so impossible after all.

"Really?" Jon asks, still so light, and Ryan frowns at him. Jon's casual indifference to the whole chemistry between them, his refusal to do more than than high-powered flirting with either Ryan or Brendon or both of them- it's just not playing fair. It's not fair to them, and it's not fair to Jon, either, not when he could actually do more than just look. Ryan would let him. Ryan wants to let him, and he's more and more sure that Brendon feels exactly the same.

"Yes," Brendon starts to say, but Ryan interrupts him, putting his hand on Brendon's knee briefly, a silent instruction to stay still.

"You're both mine," Ryan says, and god, it's hard to admit that. Not that the words stick in his throat or anything so hopelessly cliched, but his heart is racing all the same, and he feels a little light-headed, because he's putting this out there, he's making himself vulnerable in all the ways he never thought he would. "My favorites, that is," and he reaches across Brendon to sweep Jon's bangs back over his eyes, brushing the hair out of his eyes so he can look at him properly. "Really," he says, one last time, and keeps looking at Jon, hoping he'll understand what Ryan _isn't_ saying.

Jon looks- flummoxed, and thrown, and heart-breakingly hopeful, all at once, but he just looks steadily at Ryan, tilting his head a little so that Ryan's cupping his jaw, Jon's cheeks prickly with stubble against his fingers, leaning into the touch until it's really more of a caress, lingering.

"Ryan, do you- are you serious?" Jon asks- breathes, really, and Ryan can feel the muscles of his throat moving under his fingertips, and god, god, this shouldn't be hot. It shouldn't be so fraught and delicately arousing, and all he wants to do is lean in and kiss Jon. And he realizes, after a second, that Brendon's lying between them, holding his breath while he looks from Jon to Ryan and back again, and if he doesn't exhale soon he's probably going to pass out, and that's going to kill the mood more thoroughly than any idiot thing Ryan could possibly say.

"I'm always serious," Ryan says, matching his tone, and then he jiggles his knee a little to nudge Brendon, "and Brendon, seriously, breathe. Jon is not hauling your unconscious body to the emergency room again if you pass out."

Brendon sits up straight, nearly knocking his head into Jon's, and displacing Ryan's arm, looking both indignant and distracted. "Why aren't _you_ hauling my unconscious body, Ryan Ross?"

"Because Jon's the superhumanly strong and manly one in this room?" Ryan suggests, perhaps a little weakly, but come on, Brendon is little, but Ryan's been described as tiny and it's more accurate than he'd like, sometimes.

Brendon glares a little. Jon's just still staring at Ryan, flicking his gaze back down to Brendon every now and then, and Ryan doesn't think he's realized that his free hand is rubbing soothing little circles over Brendon's shoulder, keeping him close.

"I don't know why I have to be the damsel in distress all the time," Brendon gripes, and Jon pets him a little more firmly and says "because you're pretty, Brendon," and Brendon smiles and Ryan's hand tightens on his knee because, well. Yeah.

"You are," Ryan assures him, and then sits up a little straighter, because damnit, he can be brave too, and says, "And Jon is, too."

"Ryan," Jon says, and that's all he gets out, because Ryan is throwing caution to the winds, leaning over Brendon to touch his lips lightly to Jon's, and it's fast and chaste and he's kind of shaking a little, but he _did_ it, and maybe it isn't the most magical kiss (first kiss, his brain repeats stubbornly, first kiss, first, just the first) of all time, but it's Jon and he didn't pull away.

Ryan's the one who pulls away first, cheeks just barely warm, biting his tongue, because he's not sure what to do now.

Brendon's staring up at them, confusion writ clear in his face, in the troubled brown eyes that catch Ryan's and hold him still and accountable.

"Ryan, what are-?" He sounds small and a little lost, and this is the very, very last thing Ryan wanted to happen, but he has just a bit more to gamble with, before he's really gone and lost everything.

"It's Jon," Ryan says, as if that explains it and maybe it does. "You want him, too, and he wants you, I've seen it. And I think," uncertain now, "Maybe he does want me, too? Because we could- you could have both, Brendon, I want you to." Because he's seen how they look at each other, and this could be so good, for all of them.

"Ryan," Jon says a little flatly, but his face is alight with hope, barely restrained, "you can't be serious. This is- this is such a bad idea. I never wanted to get in the way, you have to believe that."

"But you're not," Ryan argues, leaning in to emphasise his point, "you're not, you won't be, just- god, Jon, will you just shut up and kiss Brendon already? You both want it."

"Um, I-" Jon says, but it's weak, and now he's focused completely on Brendon, Brendon who is wriggling around, scrambling into a slightly more sedate seated position on the couch, squished between the two of them. And then Brendon leans in to Jon, lips parted and a little shiny, and Jon's protest vanishes right into thin air.

Ryan swallows and watches them kiss, inches away from his face, mouths sliding sweetly together, and he bites his tongue hard, because he knew it was something he wanted to see, wanted to be a part of, but this is so far past what he'd imagined that there really is no comparison.

Not until Brendon pulls back and flutters his eyelashes open (and really, Brendon is such a fucking tease, sometimes, it's like he took lessons from fifties movie stars or something, it's blatantly unfair) and cranes his neck to kiss Ryan. Ryan lets his own eyes shut and concentrates on the familiarity of kissing Brendon, demanding and eager, and on the strangeness of the scene still playing out on the backs of his eyelids, Jon and Brendon together, and his teeth catch on Brendon's upper lip, tugging a little, and Brendon makes a pleased noise that seems to echo, and Ryan's eyes only open again when he realises no, that was _Jon_.

Jon is leaning in to the both of them, the calm distant expression he usually wears when they forget themselves in some kind of intimacy around him nowhere to be seen, and instead he just looks hungry, torn, and Brendon smiles wickedly and shoves at Ryan's waist and says, "Ry, seriously, kiss him _properly_ this time."

Ryan gets his hands on Brendon's shoulder and angles him just enough out of the way that he can lean in and line his mouth up with Jon's again, and this time Jon opens for him, a tiny choked noise just for him as his lips part, and they kiss, as improperly as they like. Brendon wriggles in Ryan's lap and makes approving noises, nuzzling at Ryan's neck and then shifting to rub his nose against Jon's (Ryan opens his eyes and peeks, he's not made of stone).

They trade kisses back and forth on the couch for a while longer, working themselves into the most ridiculous tangle of limbs, until Ryan has completely lost track of who's kissing who and in what order. All he knows is that there are hands on him, lips against his, and he has Jon and Brendon both, and they're all on the same page, at last.

And that page is starting to get pretty R-rated - because Brendon is impatient and handsy, and Ryan is bad at saying 'no', and Jon is quite clearly a little mad with it all, the unexpected news that maybe he can have everything he wants. Ryan's shirt is half unbuttoned and hanging off his elbows when they hear someone pounding on the door, and they spring apart as guiltily as if they're expecting it to be, well, parents.

It's worse. It's Bob, and Spencer, both a little the worse for wear ("Don't ask," Spencer says and drops tiredly into the armchair, without seeming to notice anything), but Bob is looking at all three of them with this embarrassing combination of vast amusement and deep suspicion. Ryan is pretty sure he's not actually blushing, but he's not at all certain that Jon or Brendon or both of them haven't left, like, hickies on his neck (there's a distinct bite mark just under Brendon's ear, actually, and Ryan thinks it was Jon, but he couldn't swear to it), and he knows they all look as guilty as sin.

"You said something about pizza, Walker?" Bob says, eventually, and Jon seizes the excuse gratefully, jumping up from the couch to throw things around the kitchen and fires up the microwave. Spencer just frowns at them, as if he's belatedly realized that something's a little off, and Ryan fervently hopes that he didn't actually notice that Jon's hand had been kind of tucked down the back of Brendon's jeans, because of course it was Ryan who'd actually managed to detach (and rebutton) fast enough to get the door before Spencer put a hole in it. Jon has apparently not really shifted much at all in the past ten minutes.

Brendon just slouches down on the couch a little further and doesn't squirm against Ryan instead. Much.

Ryan is in so much trouble. It's kind of awesome, really. They can definitely talk about it later, he figures, and grazes the tip of his index finger against the soft skin at the base of Brendon's spine. Like, really a lot later.

* * *

They catch what seems like another clue later in the week, and this one is a lot more obvious. A lot more obvious as in, Spencer gets a call from Ryan just after dinner, and it's not even dark yet, but Ryan tells him to get his ass down to the golf course, like, _now_, because there's something there with his name all over it.

Something turns out to be William Beckett, staring wide-eyed at the crumpled remains of his car (what had been a rather nice 2004 Pontiac GTO, according to, well, William), concertina'd underneath the bridge at the entry to the Canyon Gate country club, and slowly blocking up the tiny excuse for a stream that the bridge went over.

William had been, like, a year ahead of them in school, and friends with Ryan, so Spencer gets why he'd call him and all, but, "William, what happened?"

"There was- it said it wanted my car, and I got out to see who was yelling, and then-" he gesticulates wildly, in the direction of said car, "that happened. And then I may have had a drink to calm my nerves," which probably explains why he had called Ryan and not, oh, say, the police, "but- it can't have been real, Spencer Smith, tell me I'm dreaming, will you?"

Because, apparently, what grabbed William's car clean off the bridge and chomped down on it - and, okay, he can actually see now that part of the hood is missing, which is just, well, creepy - was a _troll_.

"Please tell me you're joking," Spencer says flatly, and Ryan shakes his head and looks almost as wild-eyed as William. "I saw it, Spence, it was big, and mean, and it really looked like it hadn't enjoyed its last meal," and Spencer figures probably not, because compressed air and gasoline and battery acid probably didn't do good things for anyone's digestion. He's just glad William had been curious enough to get out of the car.

"Silicon-based life forms," Spencer sighs, "just what I need right now," and then he calls Bob for backup, and Brendon for Ryan, and Jon because he's, well, Jon, and jogs off to do a circuit of the immediate area (road, sand trap, driveway, mostly empty club house) while he waits for them to turn up.

* * *

William's a lot drunker and a little recovered by the time Bob gets there, and he tells Bob what happened as well, with a lot of gratuitous eyelash-batting, which Bob just raises an eyebrow at and says something gruff about needing to help Spencer, at which point he beats a hasty retreat, too. Spencer is somewhat cheered by this.

It also turns out that William _knows_ Jon - one day, the fact that Jon seems to be on friendly terms with, well, the better part of a large metropolis will cease to seem unusual, but for now they just all go with it - and when Bob stomps off to grab some weapons out of his car (and Spencer hopes like hell that the LVPD never, ever pull him over on a routine inspection, because jeez) and heads out with Spencer to try and track the thing, William just attaches himself to Jon instead. Jon seems to take it pretty well, digging into William's pockets to find his phone to call a few of William's other friends to come pick him up, and reminding William to not try to tell his insurance company that it was a troll, because probably that won't inspire them to actually pay out, even if it is the truth.

They search the grounds for what seems like a couple of hours, and find absolutely nothing, which is almost scarier than the other possibility, because something the size of a troll should not be able to hide that well. Also, maybe he's seen Jurassic Park too often or something, but Spencer would've expected, like, giant footprints, at the very least. Of course, they haven't had enough rain for anything like actual mud for about a month now. Yet   
another reason not to love the state where water goes to die.

"We'd see it coming," Brendon says practically, but he kind of checks behind most of the larger trees anyway, just in case. Ryan doesn't point out, again, just how big it was; just nods and sticks close to Brendon. Both of them seem even jumpier than might be expected under the circumstances. Spencer so doesn't want to know.

Jon is, surprisingly or not, the one of them who actually applies common sense to the situation, and climbs into Bob's car, where he flips through the radio stations at high speed until he comes to one that's talking about a blackout in southern Clark County, and a whole string of accidents along the Beltway and out on route 160; overturned cars and a few houses with structural damage.

The radio is calling it freak accidents due to localised thunderstorms and maybe even some mini-tornadoes, but Spencer takes a second to imagine a big, pissed-off troll ambling along residential streets and taking a swipe at anything that gets in his way, and goes cold all over.

"We need to get out there," he says, and shoves past Jon to get into the passenger seat, waiting impatiently for the rest of them to catch up.

"Just- we should swing by my place first," Bob says, frowning ferociously, "I want to check something out."

"Hey," Ryan says, from the middle of the back seat, where he is squished between Brendon and Jon and looking a little unhappy about it ("Sorry, Ross," Jon had said, entirely unapologetically, "you're the narrowest."), "isn't Mt Potosi out, like, off the end of route 160? Where that mine was?"

"This is so not a coincidence," Spencer says, and bites his lip so as to not add a comment about how Bob needs to drive faster. Bob is already pretty much driving as fast as he can get away with, and they know that once they start heading south the area's probably going to be crawling with cops as well, what with the property damage and scared people.

Bob leaves them in the car, and is back five minutes later, stone-faced and determined.

"I thought I'd heard the names on that card at the museum before," he says, pulling back into traffic with a brutal disregard for the turn signal or the road rules, "and I just got the rest of the information from the council. The Warner brothers were a couple of warlocks who we thought had been killed by a slayer about sixty years ago. This kind of nasty is right in line with the tricks they used to get up to."

"So, not so much with them actually being dead, then," Spencer says grimly, and Bob just nods.

"What can we do?" Jon asks, the end of his question sharpening a little in pitch as Bob takes the corner just barely on all four wheels and sends both Brendon and Ryan leaning heavily into his side.

"Against warlocks, that is," Ryan continues for Jon, who's busy trying to pry Ryan's pointy elbow out of his midsection long enough to breathe.

Bob taps his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and Spencer tries not to look as the speedometer crept up the dial a little more. It's like driving with Brendon, only- no, actually, it pretty much is just like driving with Brendon. Spencer really isn't a fan. Except given that they're taking the back route, pretty soon they're going to hit stops and tailbacks, and they need to make up as much time as possible before then.

"Not much to tell you," Bob says at last, "the usual sorts of things will do for them - they're long-lived and tough to kill, but they're not actually immortal, so- stabbing, burning-" ("You really do have a disturbing affinity for the old 'set them on fire' plan," Brendon says, but quietly, because, well, _Bob_) "-beheading, any of that should work. The problem's going to be catching them when they're distracted because... magic. And any little minions they've called up are going to be in our way, too."

Ryan chokes a little. "I wouldn't call that troll _little_, Bob," and Bob shrugs as if to say, 'you know what I mean'.

"But what can we do against magic?" Brendon asks, and the car is painfully quiet, because, yeah, they'd all like to know that. And it's not as if they've really got much on their side against it.

"Tell me you've got something better than 'learn to duck', Bob," Jon says, looking about as worried as he ever does. It's sort of more like 'serene confidence' with a side order of 'looking stoned', but there's a tightness around his eyes that Spencer hasn't seen before.

"Glovebox," Bob says to Spencer, who ducks forward and tips out the contents.

There's pouches of salt, "it's blessed, too," Bob says, and Brendon pokes at it with a finger and just stops himself from opening the bag to lick at it; some holy water ("just in case!"); and some amulets that Bob says he got from a guy in Jersey, so he's not going to vouch for how much they're going to deflect, but they all hang them around their necks anyway. Every little bit has to help, Spencer figures.

Through some minor miracle or another, they actually get out to the mountain in fairly short order. Bob has Spencer hunched over the pile of maps that were under the emergency supplies, tracking out alternate routes, but it seems like giant nightmare trolls are the sort of news that get around, because half the roads are actually deserted and they make decent time.

They park by what looks like an old Boy Scout camp, and no one even makes a joke about that, all of which just adds to the growing ball of tension in Spencer's stomach. This place is starting to look... disturbingly familiar.

"I call the crossbow," he says, getting out of the car and elbowing past Jon to stock up from Bob's supplies in the trunk.

"Can you actually call shotgun on, uh, weaponry?" Brendon asks, but grabs a flashlight ("You never know when you'll need one, right? And hey, bonus blunt force trauma if you need it," and he swings the heavy maglite in example) and a few other pocket-size type bits and pieces. Ryan follows suit, and Spencer figures that Bob still has that sword slung over his back, so they're about as suited up as they're going to get.

"Jon, you want anything?" Bob asks, and Jon just shakes his head.

"I think I'll go with, you know, teeth. The usual." He's actually barefoot, having kicked off his ubiquitous flipflops in the car, but they all know by now that his soles are a lot tougher than they might look, and he's also tossed his hoodie into the backseat, leaving him in loose jeans and a t-shirt, clothing he can skin out of fast and change if he needs to.

"Saddle up, kids," Bob says, and follows the by-now clear trail of troll-related destruction up the hill. The broken brush and footprints turn away from the summit pretty quick - which Spencer is privately grateful for because, sure, super strength and muscular development are all very well and good, but that's a real fucking _mountain_ and he wasn't really all that keen on the idea of having to climb it.

The terrain gets rockier and rockier, brush thinning out even more from the usual desert scrub and occasional Joshua tree, and not long after that they're in what looks like an abandoned quarry, or a mine of some kind. There are rocky cliffs rising either side as the trail winds down into a little canyon. "Hey, limestone," Ryan says, and then "Shut up, I got good grades in geography," and not long after that, they start hearing voices. Voices, and metal-on-rock type noises, and, well, the hairs on the back of Spencer's neck stand up, because this is something like the way he feels around vampires, and a little like the way he feels around Jon, except that Jon makes his spidey senses prickle in kind of a good way, and this is so far the opposite that he actually has to close his eyes and breathe deeply for a second.

"I think this is it," he whispers, and they slink forward even more cautiously, hoping to get to scope out the situation before they get spotted.

As the canyon floor opens up into a valley proper, Spencer spots several things more or less at once. The first is a run-down looking cabin - shack, really, with an old-fashioned water tank raised up beside it - and the second what is clearly the entrance to an old mine-shaft, because it basically looks like every movie version of the dangerous abandoned mine-shaft entrance, even down to the 'danger, do not enter' sign lying on the ground in front of it.   
The last thing he notices is a scruffy-looking guy standing in front of a big pile of mud, face screwed up with concentration and a really tacky-looking wooden staff in his hand.

There's noise coming from deep inside the mine shaft, and Spencer figures that has to be the troll, because, well, there's not really anywhere else it could be. He's just glad that it's not something they're going to have to deal with right away because, seriously. It's a troll. He has a funny feeling that stakes and swords might just bounce right off something that took a bite out of Billy Beckett's car.

Of course, that's when the guy- who has to be one of the warlocks Bob identified, which means his brother might be somewhere around here, too - finishes up whatever he's chanting, a low hum which makes Spencer's bones ache, and then the mud in front of him sort of melts together into a person shape, and he reaches forward and presses something into its mouth, and its eyes spring open, burning like embers, and it looks straight at Spencer.

"Bring me the slayer," the warlock orders, and steps back looking satisfied.

"Bob," Spencer hisses, because it's starting to move towards them, and something that's just made out of solid mud shouldn't move that easily, or that fast, "Bob, what the fuck is that?"

"It's a golem," Bob says, and it's like he's putting something together at top speed, gesturing for Ryan and Brendon and Jon to spread out, and Jon's already shed his shirt and pants and is padding off on four feet, bellying through the thin scrub to try and get behind the shack. "That's what they got from the museum, it was the instructions, you- we're going to have to break its head open, or get the words out, that's what keeps it running."

Spencer doesn't really like his chances of that, and edges back a little, shoulder pressing up against Bob's, "what about if we take out the guy controlling it?"

"Um," Bob says, shrugging a little, warm at Spencer's back, "could help, might not."

"Right. So I guess this is where we start the whole insulting the bad guy's mother and making him tell us his plans part, right?"

"Spencer," Bob says, "I think his plan is pretty obviously just 'kill us all'."

"Right," Spencer says, and steps out from around the rock they'd been using as cover, and yells "Hey, you! Looking for me?"

The warlock turns on his heel and looks Spencer up and down, slowly and menacingly, and opens his mouth to make what Spencer is sure is going to be yet another comment about how, gee, doesn't he look like a girl and how come he isn't actually one, so instead of waiting to let him so as much, he just swings the crossbow around over the top of the boulder, and aims at the golem.

As he'd kind of suspected, the bolt just bounces right off, taking maybe a tiny chip of clay out of it, but mostly just adding 'friendly fire' to the mix of things that Spencer's going to have to worry about right now.

Bob slides out around him, heading to the left to draw a bit of attention, sword in hand, and what looks like maybe nun-chucks arcing in rapid circles around his other wrist, and if this works, Spencer is never going to hassle him about his Ninja Turtles fixation again. Or at least not for a few months.

"Your ancestors killed my brother," the warlock says, starting to walk towards Spencer, gesturing to send the golem at Bob, since he clearly wants to save Spencer for himself, great. "And now I'm going to kill you."

"Well, that's original," Spencer says, ducking sideways and trying not to look at Brendon and Ryan, who are doing _something_ by the mine entrance. "And not particularly fair, either. Did you ever think about maybe giving up a life of evil and going to make a living selling organic fruit or something?"

The warlock just hisses at him again, raising his staff above his head and swinging it out at Spencer. Spencer manages to roll out of the way, just barely, but there's a nasty-looking scorch mark on the ground where it hit that makes him think the staff isn't just going to leave bruises or even broken bones.

Bob is ducking and weaving around the golem, sword barely denting the hard clay, but managing to keep it off himself, at least. He drives it back a couple of steps with a series of vicious swings, and takes advantage of the momentary breathing space afforded by that to whirl the nun-chucks at the back of the warlock's head. Spencer, mid-roll, doesn't see what happens after that, but there's no noise - pain or anger - so he figures Bob must've missed.

Spencer springs back to his feet, and dips his hand into the bag of salt in his pocket, breaking the plastic in his hurry, and tosses a handful at the warlock while he steps back out of the way of the next swing. The warlock flinches and jumps back as if he's been burned, and oh hey, there's hope, because that actually seemed to do something.

A flash of movement catches Spencer's eye, and he sees Jon bounding forward, throwing himself at the warlock's back in a fully extended lunge, jaw open and ready to bite, and it looks like it's going to work for a second, too, and then Jon hits something, like the air has solidified into a brick wall, and stops dead half a foot from the warlock's back, rolling in a mass of fur and muscle and barely restrained whines into an untidy heap.

Spencer's heart is in his throat for a second, and there's a muffled cry from either Brendon or Ryan, still working frantically at the mineshaft, but Spencer can't stop to worry about what they're doing now, and then Jon is getting to his feet, shaking himself out a little, and growling nonstop, working up to a full-blown howl, and then he throws himself at the warlock again, a little more cautiously, a little less inertia behind him this time, but he's a solid guy, even if he isn't all that tall, and that still makes for about a hundred and seventy pounds of big snarling wolf.

Jon and Spencer manage to keep the warlock between them, darting in whenever they see an opening, but it's a pretty even match so far, and they're not making any real progress, which means they're not going to be able to keep this up forever.

And that's when there's a sudden groaning noise, and then a series of shattering crashes, and Spencer glances away from the warlock to see the mine entrance giving way completely, Ryan and Brendon diving away for cover, rocks falling and smashing, until there's so much dust kicked up that they're all coughing, blinking frantically to get it out of their eyes. There's a howl of pain, or maybe frustration, coming up through what tiny airspaces are left in the mine, and it cuts off after just a couple of seconds, and Spencer takes a moment to be thankful for his friends, and how amazing they are, because by the sounds of it, they're not going to have to worry about that troll again, at least.

The warlock screams with inarticulate rage, gesturing in a broad arc around his body, and the little stones and branches kicked up by the mine collapsing spin into the air and fire out in all directions. It seems like with the troll out of his control, the warlock has a little bit more firepower to play with.

"This is so not fair," Spencer says under his breath, managing to duck most of the projectiles, but he can see and hear that the others haven't been quite so lucky.

Jon makes another attack while the warlock's attention is divided, and Spencer is seized with an idea. It might not work, but it definitely can't hurt, so he shuffles back, tossing things out of his pockets, dropping the useless stake, and seizing the crossbow from the shade of the rock where he'd dropped it the first time it hadn't worked.

Jon seems to actually get a little closer this time, jaws snapping futilely an inch away from the warlock's neck, and then he's being thrown back, hard, landing ten feet away at the base of a tree trunk, and this time he doesn't get up so fast, lies there for a second, chest heaving. The warlock starts to move towards him, turning faster than Spencer had quite expected, but he takes the shot as it presents itself, and the bolt goes flying towards the warlock, and buries itself in his back.

He jerks in shock, and probably pain, and freezes only feet away from Jon.

"How-?" he growls, reaching up to press at where the point had broken straight through skin and bone, but his eyes are starting to glaze over a little bit, and there's blood seeping fast through his robe, staining it even darker, and even though he was clearly trying to kill them all, Spencer can't help feeling a little sick, because he's only ever seen humans bleed that way before, and it usually means that he's failed.

The warlock slumps to his knees, and then the ground, and just manages to reach out towards the golem, eyes still burning with hatred as he manages to croak out one more word, an order in a language that is completely unfamiliar to Spencer, which, given that he can identify both English and, well, Spanish, doesn't really rule much out.

Spencer is still a little shaky as he reaches the warlock, reaching out for a second to touch him, and then remembering every scary movie he's ever seen he pulls back, adrenaline buzzing in his ears, and settles for turning him over, carefully, by virtue of a foot pressed against his shoulder (and every ounce of Spencer's weight settled on his back foot, ready to leap back). It turns out to be unnecessary, though, because he's clearly dead, eyes wide and staring, chest still, no pulse beating in his neck.

He's just about to relax, he can't believe they've actually pulled this off, and then there's a pained yell from the other end of the clearing, and he looks up to see the golem still attacking (so, clearly, killing the master doesn't do anything for that), and Bob on his knees, sword flying clattering out of his hands. He's trying to get up, but it doesn't look like his wrists are bearing any weight, and the ground is heavy with mud from the rain that is more frequent up here, leaf mould, and the clay left over from the golem's making, and he's moving a lot more slowly than usual.

Too slowly.

The golem bats him aside as if he weighs no more than a stuffed animal, a terrifyingly casual backhand that sends Bob flying into the side of the shack, wood splintering and cracking, leaving Bob frighteningly still.

Spencer doesn't remember getting across the clearing, is only aware of Brendon and Ryan at his side, Jon limping over to join them.

"What do you want to do, Spence," Ryan asks, breathing ragged, and if they make it out of here alive Spencer's going to have to ask just what he and Brendon did, but for now, one problem at a time.

"I think- we have to-" his mind is horribly blank, and he just keeps looking over at Bob, looking at Bob and panicking, thinking, how can we get an ambulance up here, what if it's too late, how can we get rid of this thing?

"Spence. Focus." It's Brendon, his voice cutting through the mess in Spencer's head, melodic and direct, simple in its beauty.

They're all shifting, now, as if they've practiced it, a deadly dance around the golem, not letting it get too close to any one of them, exchanging looks and silent plans, keeping it away from Bob.

"Okay. Okay. It's- it's clay, right?"

"Really hard clay," Ryan says, and he has Bob's sword in his hands, long fingers wrapped around the hilt so tightly that they've gone white, but he's holding it without his arms even trembling. "Bob hit it a lot, and he didn't even scratch it, really."

"But basically it's-" Spencer tumbles forward in a shoulder roll his grade school gym teacher would've been proud of, back on his feet right away as he avoids another swipe of the golem's hand, "it's basically a big walking piece of pottery, right?"

"Right," Brendon says, throwing another rock at its head - he isn't doing much damage either, but it definitely got its attention every time he did so.

"So," Spencer goes on, feeling in his pockets to see if he has anything else useful there, but it feels like it's basically the salt, his phone - which is really no use up here - and his lighter.

"So either we need to smash it," he says, and then "kinda been trying that, Spence," Bob croaks, from where he's pulled himself up into a sitting position, and the relief which floods him is wild and almost intoxicating, "and we saw how well that worked out," Spencer yells back, giddily, "or- or, we overheat it until it cracks."

"How are we going to do that?" Brendon yelps, dodging a rush from the golem at the last second, and nearly going sprawling himself. "I don't know if you've noticed, Spence, but there isn't exactly a kiln up here!"

"Ryan," Spencer calls, and throws the lighter over his head, waiting till he's got it in his hands, "remember when we were kids? Why don't you see if you can get that shack to burn?"

"Got it," Ryan says, and spins on his heel.

Brendon and Jon close in a little more, helping Spencer to keep running interference, waiting for Ryan to help Bob stumble further away from the run-down old cabin, and then gather up some of the drier brush, the broken boards from where Bob had hit it, and piling that up against the interior wall. He starts as many spots burning as he can, and Spencer holds his breath - and then forgets to move and gets a swat to the shoulder that sends him stumbling, and Jesus, that hurt - but it actually does go up. Faster than he was kind of expecting, actually, and the flames race up the walls, licking orange-red and starting to blister the peeling paint by the door. Ryan's clear by then, circling back around to help haul Spencer back a little.

They can actually feel the heat from the fire not long after that, as if it's bouncing off the walls of the canyon, but the golem doesn't seem to register it at all, and they manage to herd it in that direction pretty well, coordinating Spencer's rushes and retreats, Jon darting around its ankles, trying to use his weight to trip it, Brendon and Ryan feinting by turns as well.

The golem is only feet away from the burning cabin when it seems to notice the fire, and even though there's no expression on the clay face, it seems to hesitate for just a second.

And then it steps backwards and disappears into the burning building.

The four boys stop, uncertain, staring.

"Did it just-" Ryan asks, weight shifting from one foot to the other.

"It's, like, Jewish," Brendon says, "I didn't think they were allowed to commit suicide either."

"I think that's Catholics," Spencer starts to say, and then curses, because either the golem is a lot tougher than they'd realized, or the cabin just isn't burning hot enough, because it's striding back out of the burning building, cherry-red, ground scorching under its feet, and oh wow, yeah, it looks like they have, in fact, managed to make a bad situation worse.

"Tank," Bob yells, and yeah, Spencer thinks, it would be nice to have a tank right about now, it could probably roll right over the golem and crush it into dust, but it's not like the US Army are waiting around to act as the cavalry right now, so he doesn't really see how that's terribly helpful.

Brendon's put it together, though, proving again how well he functions under pressure, the joking and hyperactivity melting away into pure will and stubbornness.

"No, Spence, he means the water tank!" and Spencer thinks, 'right', and runs full tilt at the rotting beam holding the metal tank above the ground, hoping that it's still working, that the rickety-looking guttering leading into it from the mountain above is still functioning, and the thing shakes as his full weight slams into the support, the guttering falling loose and clanging to the ground, spraying water that feels cool enough compared to the fire at his back to make him think that it might be snowmelt and not just rainwater, and if the tank's full- if the tank's full, this might actually work.

He steps back a little, and throws himself at the beam again, and the tank shakes harder, wood creaking, but doesn't quite fall, and then Ryan's yelling his name, and Jon is howling a warning, and he throws himself low and sideways just in time as the golem throws itself into the space where he'd been, hitting the wood with the full weight of its own not-inconsiderable momentum, and the support pole gives up with a tortured scream, and the full weight of a couple hundred gallons of icy water and the metal tank itself fall directly onto it, the tank bursting open as if made of tissue.

The golem doesn't so much crack as it does explode, super-heated clay hitting water with an inevitable reaction, and inside of a second, there's nothing left of it but a muddy piece of parchment floating in the metal scraps. Spencer is very careful, a few minutes later, to feed this into the hottest part of what fire is still burning.

Spencer blinks, wiping mud out of his eyes, and looks around. They're all liberally covered in what had been golem but is now just incredibly sticky mud. He's actually the cleanest, not that that says much, probably due to how he'd been the closest to the thing when it went, because Brendon and Ryan are basically gray from head to foot, and Jon is really no better off. Which is probably all for the best, actually, because he's shifted back and is now naked but for the mud. He and Brendon and Ryan seem to have collapsed into what Spencer is quite happy to refer to as a puppypile, especially given that Jon's at the bottom of it.

Feeling suddenly a little weak in the knees, and not too sure whether he can trust the universe not to spring something else on them now that they seem to have somehow won, Spencer just sort of stumbles over to Bob, not really thinking before he throws himself more or less bodily at him, sending him backwards a little so his head knocks into the tree trunk Ryan had helped him to lean against.

"Ow," Bob says, but there's no heat to it, and before Spencer can recall himself and feel embarrassed about the fact he's kind of just tackle-hugged his watcher, Bob has his own arms wrapping tightly around him in return, and he can feel every breath Bob's taking, chest rising and falling against his own.

"Way to not be dead yourself," Spencer says into the side of Bob's neck, and if they hadn't been pressed so closely, he would've missed the hitch in Bob's breathing, the carefully hidden tremor that runs across his skin. Spencer pulls back. "Bob?"

And Bob is just staring at him, expression completely unguarded for once, eyes hot and blatantly wanting, and it's an expression Spencer knows way too damn well, because he thinks he's seen it on his own face, sometimes. Had to hide it during sparring and training and patrols where they've run close to their own mortality before. He's never seen even a trace of it on Bob's before now, but he's going to call this sheer good fortune instead, one good thing out of this day, because there's no way Bob can deny it now.

"You're kind of an idiot," Spencer says to him, and leans in and kisses him carefully, not letting himself stop to second-guess.

Bob freezes up against him, and it's as if he can hear the battle in his head playing out over again - watcher, student, not a good idea - but Bob's not stupid either, and he gives in with a tiny moan (Spencer's toes maybe curl a little in his sneakers, not that he'd admit it) and kisses Spencer back, beard rough against his cheek, putting everything he has into it, all teeth and tongue and soft lips brushing against his, nipping at his lower lip.

"I make up for it in other ways though, right?" Bob says quietly, and Spencer grins, and ducks his head against his shoulder, because, yeah. And also, wow, they should really get out of here already. Especially before Jon and Brendon and Ryan surface from their own little whatever-it-is to notice them.

Brendon is, in fact, actually trying to kiss Ryan as Spencer looks, clearly filled with the vim and vigor of unexpected survival and Ryan is laughing but shoving him away, because, "seriously, we're _covered in mud_, Brendon, and I don't want any more of that in my mouth," and he's already trying to spit some of it out, so Brendon just turns to Jon and plasters himself up against him for a kiss instead. Jon gives it, with intent, eyes open and watching Ryan as he does, and Ryan just keeps smiling, before shoving them both in the ribs and telling them to just get a move on already.

"I'd like to get home and shower sometime this year," he says mournfully, and walks over to the trail back to the car, picking up Jon's clothes and tossing them at him in an entirely unsubtle hint.

"Hey, how did you even get the warlock?" Bob asks, staring at the body in the corner, having checked himself to make sure it really was dead.

Spencer shrugs and looks a little sheepish.

"When Jon bounced off him I figured he had some kind of shield, but I thought it was worth seeing if I could get through it with the crossbow. And, it turns out, if you kind of spill a lot of blessed salt over the bolt, boom, no problem with magic shields."

Bob looks impressed, and Spencer tries not to glow too obviously. "Plus, you know, even if it hadn't actually killed him, I figured no one concentrates too well with a hole in their leg."

"Really not his leg, Spence," Jon says, eyeing the body himself. "Should I start worrying about your aim? Because I was right behind him, you know."

"Yeah, I saw," Spencer says, and tries not to fidget, remembering.

"Do you think this counts as starting a forest fire?" Brendon asks, distracting them all, and Spencer manfully ignores the fact his hand is kind of clamped onto Jon's back pocket. "Because I don't want Smokey the Bear pissed at me. I mean, bear. He could be scary!"

"If it does, I think he'd be pissed at Ryan," Bob says, and Ryan shoots him a filthy look and walks a little faster, although that's probably difficult given that he seems to be attached to Jon's other side. Maybe Bob and Spencer shouldn't have chosen to limp along _behind_ the three of them.

"We'll call the fire service as soon as we have cell reception," Jon says easily.

They do that, and then even though they should probably be long gone before anyone official gets there - because answering questions about, well, any of it would probably not end well for them - they do end up messing about in the carpark for a while. Firstly it's because Bob refuses point blank to let any of them in the car as dirty as they are.

"You'll stick to the upholstery! I'll never get it out," he says stubbornly, and Ryan just mutters "who could tell?", not quite quietly enough for Bob to not hear him.

They wipe down as much as they can with the towels and blankets that had also been in the trunk, although Spencer is painfully aware that his eyelashes are sticking together as the mud dries, and it makes blinking feel kind of weird - like too-thick eyeliner, or something.

Brendon makes a crack about Ryan not needing to get a mud-pack facial any time soon after this, and Jon opens his mouth to say something that, knowing Jon, Spencer is totally certain is going to be one hundred percent filthy and suggestive, and Brendon distracts them both by wiping his face off on Jon's sweater, "seriously, Brendon, there are towels!" "Which you had your feet on!" and it all devolves into shoving and a little bit of additional mud-slinging, of both the literal and figurative varieties.

Spencer takes advantage of that distraction to sneak up from over his shoulder and get his hands into Bob's hair and mess it up into a faux-hawk, because it's _funny_, and also a little hot, and really, he just couldn't help himself. Bob just rolls his eyes again and tells him to quit it, but doesn't make any attempt to stop him, just sort of casually leaning back a little into Spencer, who can't really stop the smile from taking over his face.

The mud is drying faster now, going tight and itchy on their skin, and Spencer scratches at his neck, sending a flurry of dust flying into the breeze. Seriously, he would- well, not kill, but definitely consider maiming someone for a shower about now. He carefully doesn't think too hard about just where he could shower, and straightens up from where he's standing with Bob, looking over at the other three.

"Get moving, guys, we need to get out of here already," and he and Bob both have to make a lot of dry and sarcastic and completely hilarious comments about the collective brains of Brendon, Jon and Ryan, and where they're all located right at this minute, apparently, when it takes them more than a minute to disentangle themselves and start squirming into the back seat, but they shut up fast when Jon just points out that all that lovely mud means that he can actually see all the places where Bob's hands have been, thank you very much, and Spencer was definitely not that muddy when they started walking, if he knows what Jon means.

Bob reverses perhaps a little faster than he needs to, and Jon still doesn't stop snickering around the sudden lapful of Ryan, and Bob just sighs, and exchanges another look with Spencer and says, as they head back to town, and showers, and all kinds of other good and civilized things, "seriously, you couldn't manage to keep the secret identity even remotely secret?"

* * *

[Bonus Features:](http://shihadchick.livejournal.com/1421885.html) audio by [](http://inkjunket.livejournal.com/profile)[**inkjunket**](http://inkjunket.livejournal.com/) and [](http://circulation.livejournal.com/profile)[**circulation**](http://circulation.livejournal.com/)


	5. How the West Was Won (And Where It Got Us) [Epilogue]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [](http://elucreh.livejournal.com/profile)[**elucreh**](http://elucreh.livejournal.com/), [](http://katrin.livejournal.com/profile)[**katrin**](http://katrin.livejournal.com/), [](http://strangecobwebs.livejournal.com/profile)[**strangecobwebs**](http://strangecobwebs.livejournal.com/), and [](http://digitalsprawl.livejournal.com/profile)[**digitalsprawl**](http://digitalsprawl.livejournal.com/), for a multitude of very good reasons. Beta by Kat, because she is just that awesome. Title from REM's song of the same name.

* * *

"Where do you three want to get dropped off?" Bob asks the suspiciously quiet group in the backseat.

"Wait, you mean you let us, like, avert the apocalpyse," Bob snorts at the exaggeration, "- and fight evil with you, but we don't even get a shower out of the deal?" Brendon whines, scratching at his face again in illustration, and sending another flurry of fine clay dust to settle into the upholstery. (Bob winces a little.)

"Normally, sure," Bob says, fingers tapping on the steering wheel, "except you'll excuse me if I don't exactly trust you not to use up all my hot water while performing indecent acts that I really, really don't want to know about, and not just because I'm pretty sure some of them might be kind of illegal."

Spencer doesn't need to be able to see the mirror to know that Brendon is wearing an angelic expression which may as well scream out his guilt to anyone who knows him, and that Jon's cheeks are staining a faint shade of pink. It's really not fair to let Bob loose on people, sometimes.

Then again, given the three of them, Spencer's also pretty sure they probably deserve it, because he has a feeling the back seat is nowhere near as innocent as it had been a few days ago. (He tries really hard not to think about anything else Bob might've done in that back seat with other people, because that way lies, well, madness and self-esteem issues that he should definitely be too cool for.)

Ryan just coughs, clearly dying to suggest something about possibly-illegal acts right back to Bob, and wow, Spencer doesn't want to think about that, either. Like his dad always says, most people are law-abiding, up until they find a law they think is just stupid. He's pretty sure this isn't exactly the sort of situation his dad meant, though.

He's also really sure he doesn't want to think about his dad at the moment.

Bob flicks his turn signals to make the left into Jon's street, which is apparently what they'd decided on while Spencer wasn't paying attention, and Spencer looks over to catch his eye, suddenly a little unsure. "Uh, do you want me to go from-" here, he tries to say, but Bob's hand is warm and encouraging on his knee (and he's steering with the fingertips of one hand; Spencer tries not to look) as he replies firmly, "No."

Good, Spencer thinks, and tries not to get nervous. He just fought a warlock, and a golem - and frankly it's a mercy that Brendon hasn't got started on Lord of the Rings impressions yet, though give him time - and he thought Bob was, like, _dead_ or something awful like that not even two hours ago. He can _not_ be nervous at the thought of being alone with Bob.

Apparently his priorities are still really, really fucked up.

They wave the other three out of the car, and Ryan turns on the threshold to squint at Spencer, mouthing 'have fun' and then winking. It's actually a little disturbing to see, and Spencer grabs right onto that unsettling feeling, because it's better than wondering exactly what the three of them are doing, or what he's doing with Bob.

Bob must be struggling with some uncomfortable thoughts of his own, because he doesn't really say a word the remainder of the drive back to his apartment. Spencer runs that sentence through his head again and then figures maybe he's projecting a little, because it's not like Bob's chatty at the best of times, either. Bob's a pretty quiet guy.  
Spencer's thoughts drift laterally towards pondering what might make Bob louder and he has to bite his lip. It's entirely possible he's getting a little ahead of himself.

(Spencer also really has to stop having thoughts that include the word 'head'. He's starting to get somewhat uncomfortable what with the whole tight jeans and seat belt issue.)

By the time they pull up in Bob's drive, Spencer's wondering more if he's even going to be able to crawl into the shower, forget anything more athletic, because a whole bunch of muscles he doesn't even remember using have seized up and started registering complaints.

Bob gets out of the car at about half his normal speed, and he winces as he closes the door, the recoil obviously a little too much because he's massaging his forearm with his other hand, face twisted in a grimace.

"Oh, shit," Spencer breathes, forcing himself to uncurl and get out as well, walking around the car so Bob can lean on him again if he needs to, "Your wrist, I forgot- we shouldn't have made you drive."

"It's fine," Bob lies, and Spencer takes the key out of his pocket without waiting or asking, and gets to unlocking the house for him, because he thinks that kind of fine motor control might be a bit much right now. Bob's jeans aren't all that tight so it's not quite the indecent affair that doing the same thing to Ryan - or Brendon, or, okay, himself - would be, but he can still feel the warmth of Bob's skin through the thin fabric, and Bob inhales unevenly before doing his best to keep talking.

"Seriously, Spence, it's fine, I'll ice it and be good to go tomorrow, and- well, none of you are insured to drive my car anyway-" Spencer snorts this time, "And I doubt that Jon or Ryan would've been much better off anyway," Bob finishes, sighing as he walks in past Spencer and turns to wait in the hall while he locks the door behind them.

"I notice you didn't even mention Brendon," Spencer says, with a faint grin.

"I'm not crazy," Bob says. Spencer catches his breath, because instead of heading towards the kitchen, Bob's leaning back into his space, and amending, "Not that kind of crazy, anyway," before he tilts his head to fit himself to Spencer, lips pressing parted against his in a light kiss.

Spencer tries not to do anything desperately uncool like drop the keys he's still clutching, or whimper, so instead he wraps an arm carefully around Bob's shoulders and kisses him back.

They get caught like that for a good few minutes, exchanging quiet murmurs and secondhand air, and Spencer is definitely not a little dizzy by the time Bob pulls away, clearly reluctant.

"We really should shower," he says, cueing nerves and desire to tangle in a complicated curl of heat at the bottom of Spencer's stomach.

"Sounds good," Spencer says, and slides his hands under Bob's t-shirt, drawing the fabric up over his head.

Bob splutters, and only just stops himself from grabbing at the shirt, hissing as he flexes his wrist at an angle it can't manage.

"Spencer-" he starts, but Spencer is already tugging him by the belt-loops towards the bathroom, and while he may still be arguing, his body is clearly willing.

"I killed a warlock," Spencer says, and there's a little tremor hiding under his voice which suggests he's going to have to deal with that later, "and a supernatural monster, and my friends had to fight a troll, and I thought you-" He swallows hard, marshals his thoughts and orders himself not to let his voice wobble at all. "You got hurt because I wasn't fast enough, and it's been a fucking long day, Bob, so no, you don't get to tell me I can't have this yet."

Bob opens his mouth, probably to argue, but Spencer's not listening and he doesn't want to hear it, and when he closes the bathroom door behind them both and starts unbuckling Bob's belt, Bob just makes a choked noise and shuts up again.

"Good boy," Spencer says, without thinking, and then smacks Bob's hip when he laughs. And then adds "Oh, really?" because it's like the touch of his hand on Bob's side - because it's still plastered there, he's not letting go of that addictively soft skin once he's found it - or the shock of what was really only a gentle tap anyway has triggered something, because Bob is melting into him, there's really no other word for it, his weight resting back against the door as his body curves, yielding.

Spencer is no saint, and he's wanted, he wants- for so long, now, and the seven seconds he takes to lean away from Bob to start the shower running feel like they're ten times longer before he gets them both down to underwear, uncovering bruises and scars and miles upon miles more bare skin for his hands and mouth to explore.

He feels like the thud of his pulse pounding in his ears is echoing in the shower, water beating down onto the ceramic tub, and as good as Bob feels against him, he also really, really wants to get clean. And warmer would probably be good, too, even if it does feel like he's curled up in front of a furnace everywhere he's touching Bob.

Spencer lets his grip on Bob loosen a little, stepping back a couple of inches.

"Water should be warm by now," he murmurs, nudging at Bob's hip with his own.

Bob just looks back at him for a second, as if he's going to argue again (Spencer shouldn't have let go of him; Bob appears to go gratifyingly stupid when Spencer is all over him, it's wicked flattering) but he seems to think better of it, or maybe he's just accepting the inevitable, because that is what this feels like - something that was always going to happen.

"Okay," Bob says quietly, syllables bouncing off the tiles, and he runs his fingers through Spencer's hair affectionately. More clay dust rains out onto the bathmat, and Spencer is horribly certain that there is going to be a lot of cleaning in his near future. His immediate future, on the other hand, is looking a helluva lot more interesting.

Spencer leans in to kiss him once more, lingering, when Bob says against his mouth, lips buzzing, "Hey, Spence?"

"Mmm?"

"Gonna have to take something off if you're getting in the shower too."

He tucks his thumb under the waistband of Spencer's shorts, flicking the elastic against his belly for emphasis.

Spencer tries manfully not to blush and says "Hey, you too," as he extricates himself and bends over to skim his underwear down his hips and off to puddle on the floor. He steps into the tub, turning to watch Bob, and not incidentally getting his back and shoulders under the spray of hot water, feeling just that little bit cleaner and less strained almost immediately.

Bob is clean-limbed and well-proportioned, Spencer notes, watching shamelessly (hungrily) as he steps in, and his eyes trace the line of muscle, the visible effects of hours of training, subtle hints of strength.

He's been so busy, well, ogling Bob that he almost forgets that Bob can see _him_. Spencer fights a mostly-irrational urge to suck his stomach in and meets Bob's eyes, and what he sees there makes it even easier to smile back.

Bob reaches back to the wire caddy dangling off the shower head and hands Spencer shower gel, keeping a couple of inches between their bodies.

"Should get you clean first," Bob says, with a beautifully lewd grin, eyes tracking from the streaks of mud Spencer knows are still on his cheeks, and down his chest (admittedly quite a lot cleaner, thanks to his shirt). He knows he must reek of fear-sweat and exertion, but the way Bob's looking at him doesn't speak to that at all, he's just reflecting the half- crazed desire that's thrumming through Spencer's nervous system as well, all want and no rationality.

"Are you helping?" Spencer asks, flicking the bottle open and squeezing some into Bob's cupped hands before helping himself and turning to leave the bottle on the corner of the tub. He only startles a little when Bob's hands settle on his shoulder blades as he straightens up, holding him in that position.

"Hi?" he says uncertainly, leaning back into the hot water that's trickling unevenly over Bob's shoulder, into Bob's warmth.

"Hi," Bob says, and starts rubbing circles into Spencer's back, fingers skating easily through the foam, blunt nails scratching through the dried mud at the nape of Spencer's neck, running a hand down his arm, fingers trailing from bicep to wrist.

Spencer swallows thickly - Bob is naked, and hot, and hard. Bob is touching him, and fuck, Spencer has no idea what he's doing, but it's kind of awesome. He starts washing his own face and the front of his body in turn, stretching out his spine and shoulders under Bob's touch with positively sybaritic satisfaction.

He has to lean back against Bob every couple of seconds to reach back and catch some more water in his palm (Bob's tall enough to be blocking almost the entire spray, though the steam filling the room is keeping it more than temperate), and every time Spencer presses into him, Bob's hands stutter and pause, and it takes them both longer each time to straighten up and get back to business.

Spencer's eventually at the point where he's run out of skin he's capable of washing. He hasn't touched his dick, sort of suspects that doing so at this point would just be an exercise in embarrassment, and so he half-turns under Bob's hands and says, "Switch?"

They move carefully in the tub - falling and getting a cracked skull now would just be a horrible waste - and Spencer is under the stream of water, sluicing away the foam he'd missed, with Bob's broad shoulders right in front of him now, lightly freckled skin looking even paler where it contrasts with the dark leather thong around his neck.

The glimpses Spencer caught as they shifted position - because he was looking, oh hell yes - afford him a decent accounting, and aside from a few red marks on his chest and arms that'll more than likely bloom into bruises-proper over the next few days, and the lump on his head that makes him wince and then try to hide it whenever Spencer's fingers have brushed it, Bob is largely unmarked. And also pretty clean.

Spencer tips his head back for a second, blinking hard to clear the water out of his eyes. He gets his fingers into Bob's hair, digging at his scalp, steering clear of the sensitive skin above his temple.

"Want your hair washed now?" Spencer asks, curling it around his index finger and tugging lightly for emphasis. His watch catches a couple of strands, and he has to shake his hand to free it. Probably they should've managed to strip off the amulets and watches and wristcuffs (the shower cannot be good for the engraved leather wrapped around Bob's wrist, either), but they definitely hadn't been thinking all that clearly at the time. Bob's head tilts easily to follow the movements of Spencer's hand, and then pulls against it as he shakes his head, declining.

"No, it can wait," Bob says, tilting back a little in obvious invitation, and scarcely breathing, Spencer inches forward to press fully against him, one hand settling at Bob's hip while the other stays curled around the nape of his neck, holding them both steady.

Bob exhales raggedly once Spencer's flush against his back, wriggling against him so wet skin slides and sticks by turns. Spencer swallows a stupidly high moan as his hips move without entirely conscious direction, because the angle is kind of perfect; his cock pressing against Bob's ass, and it's nothing more than basic frottage, really - slow and almost gentle and it's just unbelievable, seriously, Spencer had no _idea_.

"Fuck, Spence," Bob growls, and Spencer has to curl his toes and grab him tightly to keep them both steady and balanced, and Bob's hand flails about to grab at the wall, because the needy little start Bob had just given - thighs parting and foot skidding on the bottom of the tub - had been just enough to throw his balance off.

Spencer's heart is racing and it's not all entirely due to being desperately turned on, now, and he lets a little logic float back to the forefront of his mind, peeling his fingers reluctantly from Bob's skin and saying, "Hey, do you think we should maybe get out now?"

And Bob just says yes fervently and gets himself out of the shower with a flattering lack of caution, snagging a towel off the door and drying himself off hastily and patchily.

Spencer turns around from spinning the taps off just in time to field another towel, although he's barely managed to shake that out before Bob is crowding back into his space, taking over the effort of rubbing the fabric against the planes of his chest and thighs, over the rivulet of water collecting at the point of his pelvic bones. He bites his tongue hard more than once as Bob's wrists and palms brush against the side of his dick, hot teasing touches that he's sure aren't the slightest bit accidental.

His fingers go nerveless and he drops the hold he had on the towel when Bob leans in again, kisses his neck and says urgently, "Spencer, fuck, I want to blow you, oh god," and Bob isn't really waiting long for a response, fingers edging towards Spencer's groin.

He chokes on an entirely inappropriate fit of the giggles as he replies, "God, what do you think, yes, _please_ Bob," because Bob isn't wasting any more time, dropping to his knees right there in the bathroom, and it is, actually, the hottest thing Spencer has ever seen.

Bob pushes him back until his ass is connecting with the cool ceramic of the sink, and his fingers curl gratefully over the edge, arms shaking as he tries to hold himself steady, waiting as Bob shuffles on his knees across the last foot of space between them. He does have to laugh as Bob manages to land his weight on a button or something in a pocket which must've hurt, because he curses loudly and shoves the untidy pile of their clothes away from where they'd been scattered between them.

And then Bob's hands are at his waist, thumbs rubbing hot little arcs across his hipbones as he ducks his head down to nuzzle at the fine spread of hair over Spencer's stomach, his beard rasping a little, friction sending tiny muscle spasms chasing across Spencer's skin. He moves his head down, further down, slow and inexorable and Spencer's pretty sure he's forgetting basic functions like how to talk and breathing. His heart is racing as Bob pauses bare inches away from his dick, looking up at Spencer as if to gauge his readiness, and warm air puffs against the sensitive skin as Bob considers, lips parted, and just that alone feels so fucking good that Spencer can hardly imagine how much better it could be.

Bob smiles up at him, open and easy and Spencer can't do anything but grin back, lust-addled and shaky, and then Bob licks his lips and shifts forward to wrap his mouth around the head of Spencer's cock, and Spencer makes a noise which he doesn't think he could replicate for a million dollars, because holy fucking shit.

Bob doesn't make a sound, but the tiny portion of Spencer's brain which is still functional and observing reads satisfied smugness in the line of his shoulders and back, the possessive curve of his hands around Spencer's hips, and his mouth is working over Spencer so easily, sucking and licking by turns, a pattern that Spencer can't predict and can only react to.

He knocks a bottle of lotion or something into the sink with a loud clatter when Bob swallows around him, mouth sliding further down his cock than it has yet, and only has a second to feel embarrassed before Bob kind of laughs around him, and that feels fucking amazing as well, and his knees are definitely starting to go seriously weak.

Bob's leaning heavily into him now, using his own body weight to keep Spencer pinned, to stop his hips stuttering up into the heat of Bob's mouth, running the tip of his tongue in light patterns over the head before pulling back.

His mouth is shiny and wet as he pants audibly for a second, resting his face against Spencer's thigh, and the scrape of his beard against skin makes Spencer twitch again, jerking a little with reaction.

Bob takes a deep breath and lifts his head again, running his tongue up the length of Spencer's dick before opening up to suck again, and Spencer has a moment of crashing unreality as he realizes how they must look, and his stomach twists and back starts knotting up again, arousal building and starting to crest, fine tremors running across his skin and breathing going uneven, and he knows, he knows he's about to come. If Bob just keeps doing that, he's going to melt into blissful nothingness, and he inhales raggedly and opens his mouth to say something, it's only good manners to try and warn him, right? And _that_ is when there's a rattle against the tile floor and the Pussycat Dolls ringtone that means it's Ryan calling echoes through the room, Spencer's cell loud and entirely unwelcome.

Bob pulls away from him, startled, and thunks his head into the door of the cabinet by Spencer's knee.

Spencer bites his lip. He's so- god, he's so hard and he just wants Bob's mouth back on him, Bob touching him, and this is so fucking ridiculous he can't even think clearly.

The phone bells out a couple more bars, vibrating loudly against the floor and then goes silent, with just a decorous little beep to inform them that there's a voicemail message. Bob and Spencer keep staring at each other, uncertain.

"Um, did you want-" Bob starts, and his voice is a little rough, the realization of which rocks through Spencer like heat lightning, completely distracting him from wondering just what Ryan could be needing to call him about right now.

If he'd read the signs correctly - and he kind of figures he has - then Ryan should have his hands and his- Spencer accidently entertains a mental image there which goes above and beyond what a best friend needs to be thinking about and blanches. Well, at the very least Ryan should have his hands full with Jon and Brendon. And unless they were all a lot more tired out than Spencer had thought, and Ryan somehow felt the need for a completely inappropriate post-mortem, then Spencer had no idea what could be going on. It could be important.

Then again, Spencer looks down at Bob, lets his hips drift sideways into the light touch of his hands and figures that he isn't going to last anything like more than another five minutes as it is. Ryan can totally wait.

"No, no, it's fine," Spencer says breathlessly, twining his fingers into Bob's hair again, trying to skirt the edge between suggestive and demanding, but kind of fucking it up by the way his voice gets all uncertain when he goes on to say, "Keep going, please?"

"Only 'cos you're polite," Bob says, with a filthy grin, and bends back to work with a will.

Spencer swears delightedly, and just stares down at Bob, watching his mouth move, pretty convinced that his eyes have to be just about crossing from the sensory overload.

Bob frees up one hand (without much difficulty - Spencer's leaning heavily back against the vanity and shaking more than he's thrusting or anything else that he's seen in, you know, _porn_) and runs it along the thin skin of Spencer's inner thighs, making pleased little sounds around his dick when Spencer makes appreciative noises. Bob's fingers curl up and in, and Spencer's voice gets louder without his permission, because Bob's stroking dry fingertips lightly over his balls (Spencer's maybe fallen into habits when jerking off, lately; thinking about Bob and riding his own hand hard, not really branching out past what works) and fuck, Spencer's forgotten how good that feels.

Bob's not even giving him much time to enjoy it, either, because he's still moving, sucking hard so that Spencer can see his muscles moving, see the faint pressing outline of his cock in Bob's mouth, and it's stupidly, crazily hot. Bob's fingers run down his body a little further, rubbing behind his balls (tactical error, because that does make Spencer jerk forward, and Bob nearly gags, which was probably not in the plan) and then brushing over his ass. Spencer nearly whites out as that last teasing little touch trips him right over the edge, coming hard with the combined pressure of Bob's mouth and the suggestion of something more as his fingertip nudges just inside him.

A little dazed, Spencer lets himself slide down the side of the vanity until he's sitting on the floor, staring dopily at Bob. He's just got enough functional braincells left to register that Bob's rinsing his mouth at the sink over his head. He paws at Bob's side, tugging him back down onto the floor (Bob groans as his knees protest) and grabbing his face to kiss him again. Spencer wipes the faint streaks of come from around his mouth off with the ball of his thumb - okay, so maybe that had been messier than he'd been expecting, but Bob wasn't complaining about having swallowed a little (Spencer had _felt_ that, and it was surprisingly hot), before spitting the rest.

"God," Spencer says, fervently, and kisses Bob again, feeling the corners of his lips turn up against his, a grin that he knows is probably smug and a little obnoxious, but he can't really fault Bob for it, because... God.

Spencer's not entirely innocent, not really, and he's done a lot of stuff before - okay, some stuff. And mostly with one girlfriend, and that hadn't entirely ended well for either of them, but it hadn't been anything like this good. Practice probably helps with that, he has to figure, and he arches his back a little more to rub against Bob, sneaking a hand down to Bob's thigh. Spencer is courteous and generous, he wants to give some of this back. And Bob is smoking fucking hot and naked against him, so clearly hard and needy, and Spencer is going to be _right on that_, damnit.

"Can I-" he starts, and it's not really like he has to use actual words to finish that sentence, not with his fingers wrapping around Bob's dick suggestively, palm sliding forward.

Bob makes a muffled sound into Spencer's neck, and says "Yes-" and then, "No, actually," and Spencer freezes up, which was probably not kind, because Bob does something that could only really be described as 'squirming', and then curses, before going on to add, "No, Spencer, can we just- I have a bed. It's pretty comfortable, and it's a lot warmer than this and I kind of want to see you in it."

It's a reasonably compelling argument, actually, and having at least a softer surface underneath them sounds like a good idea to Spencer, too, and so he lets Bob stand up, and follows him down the hall to the bedroom, leaving their clothes and damp towels and everything else in the bathroom. There'll be time for all that later, right now Spencer is just humming with the post-orgasm endorphins, and looking forward to getting Bob all pliable and into a similar state.

Bob's room is ridiculously neat compared to, well, that of almost anyone else Spencer knows. He'd never even had a peek in here before - training was in the basement, obviously, and for whatever reasons, most of their informal war councils tended to end up in the kitchen. Okay, probably that had a lot to do with proximity to cookies, but the point was: Bob's bedroom. Which Spencer has not been in. And certainly not while naked and kind of sweaty and gross. (So much for the shower.)

Bob tugs the comforter down, and almost off the foot of the bed before turning back to eye up Spencer, and maybe he was a bit more impatient than he was trying to let on, because Spencer could've sworn he was just about tapping his foot.

"All right already," Spencer says, unable to stop himself grinning, and launches himself at Bob, managing to angle them both at the last second when he remembers the bruises they were both sporting, and the sprained wrist- wrists, probably - and, hey, probably it was a good thing Bob had gone down on him, because Spencer didn't think he'd have been physically able to give him a handjob, and oh god, Spencer's life was so incredibly fucked up that he could end up putting thoughts like _that_ together and have them be completely sensible.

There's some perfectly acceptable rolling around and half-serious wrestling on the bed, and Spencer ends up with the sheets rucked up under his back briefly, before twisting to get himself firmly on top of Bob, and then he wriggles, just a bit, very deliberately, and Bob's eyes flutter shut as he goes tense and tries to grind up into Spencer's body.

"You are such-" he gasps, and Spencer bites at his jaw and then kisses him again, it was addictive, it so fucking was, he was never going to get anything else done ever again, "You are such a _tease_, Spencer Smith," Bob grits out, and then squirms some more, so that Spencer's thigh is snugged up tightly between his legs, easy pressure.

Bob "mmm"s into his mouth encouragingly and arches up into Spencer, running his palms up and down his sides for a couple of seconds before letting them rest at his hips, fingers tapping a staccato beat into Spencer's skin.

Spencer grins to himself (against Bob) and doesn't take the hint, keeping his hands chastely above Bob's waist while he concentrates on kissing some more. It's probably a little unfair - after all, he got to come already, so the sense of urgency is definitely diminished and all - but Bob seems to be enjoying it as well, and it's not like he's not doing his best to rub off against Spencer's leg at the same time anyway.

Spencer pulls back for a second to nuzzle at Bob's neck again, lips and tongue buzzing as they brush over the stubble around Bob's jaw. Bob makes a tiny noise and Spencer grins and presses a soft kiss over the pulse point in his neck.

And then Bob twitches under him and makes another noise, and Spencer frowns. Okay, so the kissing-his-neck thing was maybe a little more romantic and a little less sexy, but he didn't think it was the kind of thing that would spark that sort of reaction. He gets up on his elbows so he can watch his hand move down Bob's chest, thumb hooking into his navel for a second on its way south, and grins when Bob twitches again, bucking his hips unsubtly.

Bob's eyes slip closed and he has an immensely flattering smile on his face when Spencer manages to persuade himself to lift off Bob enough to get his hand between them, to circle thumb and fingers around Bob's cock and slide up. He ducks his head to press a kiss against Bob's collarbone, and then licks over his nipple as well while he's at it.

Bob groans, low and satisfied in the back of his throat, his legs spreading a little wider so that Spencer is tucked easily in between them. And then his eyes open as he jumps underneath Spencer - who was just tightening his grip a little and didn't expect that - and he says, "Hey, Spence, watch the teeth, okay-?" and Spencer freezes, because what?

"Huh?" He asks, frowning.

"That kind of stung a little," Bob starts, and then blinks a couple of times and seems to register Spencer's pose, curled over his body so he can reach the, well, fun parts, but not plastered up against him anymore, and then he frowns as well.

"Did you just bite my hip," he goes on, and Spencer shifts so they can both see, and sure enough, there's a neat red mark that looks like a bite just above Bob's hip.

"What the fuck?" Spencer hisses, and has to curb his initial impulse to fling himself off the bed. He kind of maybe really isn't all that keen on small biting things, especially ones that aren't shaped like his bandmates (they all fight dirty if they're wrestling. Spencer figures it's a combination of actually having had to fight for real over the past few months and being used to using everything they've got, and the plain and simple fact that neither Ryan nor Brendon exactly has all that much weight to throw around in the first place. Their dentists would be proud, though).

Bob's still staring, lines creasing around his brow, and he shifts one hand to prod experimentally at the bite, and says "That's weird."

Spencer is really missing the earlier past of the evening, ie, the part where there was naked making-out and about to be more sex, and wondering if they could maybe get back to that now when he feels a light touch on the back of his calf - where Bob is most certainly not touching him - and then a sharp nip just on the curve of muscle.

"Ow," he yelps, rolling off Bob and batting at the back of his leg. Something small and- purple? What the hell? - skitters away from his hand and under the sheet. Spencer inches away from that side of the bed, totally ready to make a brave leap for the floor if he has to.

"Bob," he says, a little too calmly, when it doesn't reappear after a second or two, "Is it at all possible that you might have bugs?"

Bob is also sitting up, tensed up in a way that suggests he's ready for instantaneous, bug-squashing or heroic running-away type action himself, and Spencer finds himself leaning towards him fractionally, just for solidarity and warmth. He doesn't take his eyes off the rumpled-up sheet, though.

"I really don't think so," Bob says, and then they both curse and roll off the bed - in different directions, apparently the training on not getting in each other's way in a fight has gone subliminal or something - as Spencer twists and tries to flick whatever's just bitten his shoulder off him with the combined force of both physics and the power of his mind.

"Shit, ow, what the hell," Spencer bitches, craning his neck to try and see what he's aiming to knock away from his body. Bob lunges over the bed with an economy of motion that would, under normal circumstances, be beautiful to watch, and squishes _something_ against Spencer's shoulderblade with a controlled swat. He pulls his hand back (Spencer's back is stinging, jeez, talk about killing the mood) and the two of them exchange looks of consternation. It's definitely some kind of bug. It's also about twice the size of an ordinary house spider, appears to have a lot of legs, and it is absolutely, one hundred percent, really and truly purple.

"I didn't know roaches came in that colour," Spencer says slowly, but he's in denial and he knows it, because there's no way that thing is natural.

"They usually don't," Bob says, looking equal parts disturbed and pissed-off, and then, "Motherfucker!" and he's hopping on one foot and stamping on another little purple beetle-thing which didn't scurry back under the bed fast enough. He makes a face as he wipes his foot off on the carpet and then looks at Spencer. "This is really not normal," he says, and then edges further away from the bed when the sheet flutters like something- okay, like a few somethings are moving under it.

"What do you think?" Spencer asks, edging towards Bob's nightstand, and picking up an empty glass that had been sitting there, weighing it thoughtfully in one hand. "Rain of toads to follow this, or what?"

He bites his lip when something stings at his ankle, but manages to dart forward quickly enough to trap another one of the little bug things underneath the glass and against the polished wood of the bedside table. It flutters madly against the glass, little legs working frantically and almost-invisible wings whirring, but it doesn't seem to be doing anything more supernatural than, well, existing. There's no out of proportion strength to it, and it's certainly not shooting laser-beams from its eyes to burn through the glass wall around it or anything.

Bob comes closer and squints through the top of the glass to look at the bug more closely, jumping as he has to flick another one off his upper arm where it had landed. It's segmented like most insects, three parts to its body, and aside from the fact they seem to be appearing out of thin air - Spencer could swear another one appears every time he manages to squash or swat one - and are bright glittering indigo.

"I think I've seen these before," Bob says, chewing on his lip ring, clearly trying to remember, and he twitches almost imperceptibly towards the living room and his books. The part of Spencer paying attention and not busy trying to keep the bugs from feasting on altogether more sensitive areas finds it kind of adorable.

Something teases at the edge of Spencer's memory, though, the longer he looks at the bug from over Bob's shoulder, and it's just as Bob snaps his fingers and announces "Aphrodite beetles!" and turns as if he is actually going to head for the bookcases to find out how to get rid of them when Spencer gets where he's seen something like that before too.

"Bob- They're on the amulets!" and Bob's face is almost comical as he looks down at the little polished stone amulet hanging around his neck. The little faintly purple vaguely bug-shaped amulets he'd handed around the car earlier that afternoon, dangling with some beads from a leather thong.

"Oh, I'm going to kill him," Bob promises darkly as he yanks the leather cord off his neck.

Spencer follows suit, staring at the little piece of rock dumbly for a moment before exchanging a look with Bob and asking, "Smash them, do you think?" and Bob just nods.

Spencer wastes a second looking for something to do the actual smashing with - it's not like he has any shoes on, and he might be kind of a superhero but he's not, like, a _ninja_ or anything - and with a mental shrug, just swings the pendant hard into the side of the window frame. Whether Bob had them reinforced or whether the rock was just that fragile, it shatters like glass. Bob had taken the slightly more direct route of just slamming his into the drawer on the nightstand and was glaring at the crystalline shards on his floor.

Spencer steps around the potential splinters and pokes cautiously at the sheets. The bug that had been inside the glass seems to have vanished in a literal puff of smoke. It seems too good to be true, and Spencer isn't going to just assume all's well now. There are no suspicious movements either underneath the cotton of the bedclothes or - when he crouches down and peers underneath the bed - anything moving under there, either. It looks like they are actually safe, and reminded, Spencer scratches at his ankle with the heel of his other foot, and then straightens up to twist his arm up and rub the itching bite on his shoulder, too.

Bob makes a choked noise from behind him, and Spencer whirls to his feet, acutely aware of the fact that not only are all their clothes in the bathroom, but all their actual weapons and anything useful like cell phones or lighters or - okay, underwear - are too, but there's nothing there. Just Bob, staring at him and looking vaguely shifty. It's possible Spencer's missed something here.

"What?"

"The last five minutes kind of sucked, but that view made up for a lot," Bob says unrepentantly, and Spencer smacks his arm without even pausing to think and glares.

"So, what exactly just happened?" Spencer asks, having crawled back into the bed and (after one last, suspicious check of the bedding) curled up under the blanket with Bob, their knees bumping as they share a pillow.

"Those were Aphrodite beetles," Bob starts, and the tone is the familiar lecturing one he's heard from his watcher from day one, and it does something weird in Spencer's stomach to hear it under these circumstances. Bob grimaces, seeming to realize, and lets his voice dip back to a more normal cadence.

"They're attracted to, well, sexual energy, and they feed on that as well as blood when they bite. Mythologically speaking, they were meant to be a curse from a wife on her cheating husband - if he went to bed with anyone but her, it would invoke them and not only would he be punished with the bites, she'd be able to see the evidence. I guess what we did in the bathroom," Bob pauses and runs his hand along Spencer's spine, reassuring, and Spencer shivers and reminds himself to pay attention, damnit, "triggered them."

Spencer doesn't blush, but it's a near thing.

"But why- I mean, no, actually, why?"

"People use them for practical jokes a lot," Bob admits. "I think most people would notice them, um, well before we did."

"You are pretty distracting," Spencer agrees solemnly, and yelps when Bob just pinches him - pinches his ass, jeez - in response.

"But why would anyone-" Spencer starts to ask again, and then gets thoroughly distracted when Bob's hand cups the curve of his ass and strokes up, pressing into the small of his back so that their bodies move closer together again, and he forgets the rest of his sentence as Bob leans in and kisses him. They fall into rhythm even quicker this time, Spencer's mouth opening under Bob's as if he had asked, the kiss getting wetter, harder, hotter with every second.

"Fucking Gabe," Bob growls as if it's an afterthought, and Spencer would ask, he totally wants to know - after all, it's also his delicate bits that had almost ended up on the menu for supernatural bedbugs - except Bob is biting at his lower lip now, tugging it between his teeth, and Spencer's mostly just focused on trying not to whimper embarrassingly. He can feel the press of metal into the side of his mouth where Bob's lip ring is flipping back and forth as their mouths move, and he can't resist the urge to flick it with the tip of his tongue, just to see Bob's reaction.

Spencer rolls onto his back and Bob slides on top of him as if they'd practiced the move a thousand times before (which in a way, they kind of have, except in training it's usually Spencer pinning Bob these days) and his weight feels good, pressing Spencer down into the mattress as he shifts and rocks. Spencer frees up his mouth for a second to say roughly "Hey, let me-" as he gets his hand back on Bob, thumb circling the head of his cock in a friendly fashion, bumping his knuckles against the vein on the underside (Bob hisses appreciatively and Spencer maybe smirks) before stroking in earnest.

It's been long enough since they were in the bathroom that Spencer's body is starting to get actively very interested in affairs again, and it's somewhat distracting. The adrenaline from dealing with the beetles can't have helped, either. He tries to focus on jerking Bob off, making it good for him, but he can't quite help the little pushes of his own hips against Bob, the way he wants to just grind up and rub off again.

"Teenagers," Bob murmurs ruefully and licks at the corner of Spencer's mouth, rocking down into Spencer, pressed against him from chest to stomach to thighs, and there's no way he can't tell that Spencer's getting hard again too.

"Fuck you," Spencer says evenly and matches Bob's motion, before realizing what he's said and playing out a rapid and satisfying fantasy behind his eyelids of doing just that.

And then he has to blink and almost stutter "What?" when Bob-in-real-life just laughs and repeats "I said, good idea, you want to?"

Spencer's fingers dig into the muscles of Bob's back hard, holding him as close as he can, throat dry and pulse sky-rocketing. "You'd let me?" He hasn't really thought about it that much, never really truly thought he'd be in anything like this position, and so he had to admit that any time he had, he'd kind of expected that Bob would be the one fucking him. And nerves aside, it's not like he'd exactly be opposed to that, either, just- this is a little unexpected.

"Mmmm," Bob says, and somehow he's got his hand on Spencer's dick again, running his fingertips along the length almost contemplatively. "Providing we can make it that far without getting interrupted again, hell yes I want you in me, Spencer," and hey, wow, screw the refractive period, hearing that's more than enough to get Spencer painfully hard and ready in about a second flat.

Honesty compells Spencer to admit that "I've never actually done that, Bob," and Bob gets that expression on his face again, the one that says he's remembering how old Spencer is and how experienced he... isn't, and Spencer could kick himself, because fuck, he wants this, and he's going to have to have a first time some time, right?

"I'm pretty sure we can muddle on through," Bob says, grinning at him, his words echoing something Spencer doesn't quite remember. He reaches over to the drawer he'd smashed the amulet up with, digging around one-handed before finding whatever he's after and dropping a little bottle and a foil packet onto the bed beside them, his weight settling back fully onto Spencer again.

"So how are you with the theory?" Bob asks, and his voice is totally dry and at complete odds with the hot sway of his body into Spencer's, the encouraging little twitches of his hips. Bob's cock is fully hard too, curving up and pressed between their stomachs, a little precome smearing damply over Spencer's belly and knowing that - seeing that - makes him twitch and bite the inside of his cheek so he doesn't say anything stupid.

"Maybe you could demonstrate?" Spencer suggests, breathless, and Bob reaches for the lube and hisses as he stretches to get his arm behind himself at the right angle.

Spencer hooks his chin over Bob's shoulder and flat-out stares as Bob fingers himself, twisting first one finger and then two into his body, caught by the liquid gleam of the lube liberally coating his fingers and the way they seem to slide so easily inside.

"My turn?" Spencer is kind of impatient, but holy shit, the way Bob is shifting on top of him; moving smooth and sensual, utterly uninhibited, and he wants to be responsible for that.

He manages to flick the cap of the bottle up one-handed (his other hand seems to be practically superglued to Bob's hip, thumb rubbing over the cut of muscle just below his pelvic bone) and squeezes some lube into his palm. Bob shifts with a barely audible sigh and threads his fingers through Spencer's briefly, so they slide slickly before his thumbnail catches in the web of skin between Spencer's thumb and index finger. It actually spreads the lube a little better, and his hand feels cool and wet in the still air of the bedroom, and then Spencer has his hand on Bob's ass (again), and he's trailing his fingertips along the sweet dip at the base of his spine (that's new, and kind of ridiculously hot), and then down between his cheeks to press tentatively inside.

It's hotter than he might have expected - both in terms of arousal (Spencer can't remember being this turned on before in his _life_) and literally. Bob's body opens pretty easily to his touch, and even though he knows, logically, that he can only be the same ninety-nine degrees that everyone's body runs at, it somehow feels a lot warmer with his palm curving over Bob's backside and two fingers buried to the second joint inside his body.

He shifts under Bob, trying to get a better angle, and it's possible this wasn't the smartest way to do this, and eventually Spencer's probably going to start having trouble breathing, but right now it's all heat and good and sheer mindless want, so he just twists his wrist a bit more and lets Bob fuck himself back onto his fingers, panting out rough consonants. His own dick is getting some truly admirable friction going against Bob's, and Spencer crooks his fingers a little more, experimentally, and is rewarded with Bob going visibly rigid against him, gasping out something that sounds like "ahh" as his muscles contract.

"Working for you?" Spencer asks, his own voice sounding as rough as a pack-a-day smoker, and Bob is blinking fast and pushing back against him, voice tight as he replies "What do you think?" and then "God, _Spencer_," as Spencer tries it again, and shit, it's only going to take a little more and he'll end up coming again, has a feeling Bob has to be getting close by now too, and it's not like they're not going to be able to do this again, he figures. This is more than good enough for him right now anyway, so Spencer just lifts his chin and manages to catch Bob's mouth in a completely uncoordinated kiss, teeth catching briefly on his piercing before they get lined up better. He twists his hand some more, finger-fucking Bob while they grind against each other and it really doesn't seem to take more than a couple of breaths for Bob to go absolutely still above him, a tenuous moment of utter silence before Bob shakes apart over him, the incoherent moan he can't seem to bite back more than enough to have Spencer coming again as well. He thinks it should be weirder than it is, to feel the blood-warmth spread of Bob's come over his belly, to think about where his hands have been and where they're probably going to go again, but Spencer slays vampires and fights demons, and he's talked to water sprites and pixies, so really, weird has a long way to go before it gets to his zipcode these days.

* * *

Spencer's half-dozing on his side, still snugged up warmly against Bob, although they've managed to kind of maneuver away from the worst of the wet spot on the sheets when a very belated thought finally floats up to the top of his conscious mind, and he sort of flails half off the bed, tangled up in sheets and blankets and Bob.

"Oh, shit-" he gets out, and looks around for a robe or something, because the idea of making a bare-assed dash to the bathroom is somehow a lot more embarrassing now than it had been before when they'd just walked it.

Bob looks instantly concerned, and not a little guilty as well. "Spence?"

"Ryan," Spencer says with the type of pointed emphasis that conveys everything he would say if he was speaking in full sentences right now, and gives up on even attempting modesty to just roll out of bed and make for the bathroom and the sad pile of dirty clothes and his _phone_.

He's staring at the screen - '1 missed call' it informs him cheerfully - when Bob leans against the doorjamb and raises an eyebrow at him. Spencer bites his lip.

"Do you think there's going to be a good way to warn him about the beetles?" Spencer asks, none too hopefully.

Bob's response is merciless. "Spence, if he was calling then, I think they probably figured it out."

Spencer goes back to trying really hard not to imagine that, and also to ignore how maybe if he'd actually answered the phone then they wouldn't have ended up with quite so many potentially embarrassing bites themselves. Then again, it had been a pretty fucking spectacular blowjob. Spencer didn't think anyone would really _blame_ him, under the circumstances. Then again-

"But they should be okay, right? I mean, those things weren't going to seriously hurt them or anything?" And there's a truly horrifying thought that Spencer actually hadn't entertained yet, because what if Ryan didn't call back yet because he can't?

"They're nuisances only, honest," Bob says, a lot more reassuringly than usual. "I know the guy who made them, and while I will be kicking his ass the next time I see him, he's not really into death and maiming or anything. Chaos is more his thing."

"You have the weirdest friends," Spencer says with a frown, still eyeing the phone. He should call Ryan back. He really should.

"You're one to talk," Bob says, just grinning, and Spencer flips him off without even having to think about it. It's possible this might not be as weird as he first thought. Even if Bob does toss a shirt and sweatpants at him and tell him that he could probably take those threats more seriously if he wasn't naked.

"Okay," Bob says, after making sure to commentate Spencer's dressing process appropriately, "You want pizza or something? I'm going to grab some food and leave you some privacy to girl-talk with Ross."

Spencer splutters indignantly and unfortunately doesn't think of a suitable comeback before Bob's vanished down the hallway, so he has to content himself with glaring into the mirror to express his feelings before steeling himself to call Ryan.

Ryan's phone rings for a suspiciously long time, long enough that Spencer is starting to edge back towards the hall and shoes and car keys, because maybe they should go over and check up on the other three, just in case, and then Ryan picks up with his customary lack of greeting and says, "So, was it everything you hoped and dreamed?"

And then while Spencer is still busy choking at that, Ryan goes on, totally deadpan, "Was it a beautiful joining of your two souls?" and Spencer manages to reply, "Oh my god, Ryan, what the fuck?"

Ryan just makes a disparaging noise and points out, "Spencer, your boyfriend gave us creepy magic insects that only show up during _sex_, I think that means I'm allowed to make fun of you for at least a year."

Spencer decides not to pursue that 'boyfriend' comment, or to think too hard about said sex, and just says, as diffidently as he can, "So, you, um. Figured out how to get rid of them?"

"Jon is very smart," Ryan says smugly, and, "and he's quick with his hands, too." Brendon says something indistinct in the background, and Spencer can pretty much guess at the content, because Ryan clearly puts his hand over the phone and tells him to shut up, and Jon is just laughing, and Spencer can picture them all, curled up close and hanging over Ryan's shoulder.

"Is he now," Spencer can't help himself, "You know, I think I heard something like that in the car this afternoon," and it's Ryan's turn to splutter now, and he says, "Oh, fuck you, Spencer," and then there are more comments from the peanut gallery on Ryan's end of the phone, and they start getting more and more x-rated and Spencer so does not need to hear any of this.

"Anyway," Spencer says loudly, trying to drown out the cheerful suggestions that Brendon is making - from what sounds like a half an inch away from the phone, god, "I just wanted to check you guys were all right, in case the call earlier was, um, urgent."

"Busy, were you?" Ryan's tone is deceptively dry.

"Um," Spencer says, and reminds himself to come back in his next life as someone who can actually prevaricate more successfully under pressure.

"Yeah, that's what we thought," Ryan says, and then laughs breathlessly, and Spencer really, really doesn't want to know.

"So, everything is fine there now," he tries again, and Ryan just says, "_Yes_, we smashed the amulets, and so the only thing we have to worry about biting us now is Jon," and there's a muffled "Hey!" in the background that Spencer ignores about as successfully as he has everything else so far.

Which is a thought, actually.

"It's not actually contagious if Jon- if you get bitten when he's not all wolfy, right?" Spencer asks, suddenly worried, but Ryan just assures him blithely, "We're fine, Spencer," which is not actually what Spencer was asking, and he tries to point that out but Ryan just talks right over the top of him and says "and I need to go shut Brendon up again now, bye," and hangs up right in the middle of Spencer's sentence.

Spencer rolls his eyes, laughs, very carefully does _not_ think about why Ryan was in such a hurry to get off the phone, and heads towards the kitchen.

If he's lucky, Bob will have found some form of food and tossed it in the oven, or more likely, the microwave.

If he's really lucky, they'll probably manage to eat about half of it before they get too distracted. Spencer takes a moment to think about carpet burn and how tomato sauce stains and decides to suggest eating in the kitchen.

Just in case.

* * *  
[end]

Sequel: [Waiting for the Sky to Fall](http://shihadchick.livejournal.com/1488499.html), co-written with [Kat](www.archiveofourown.org/users/kathalcyon).


End file.
